


Vagabonds

by amarillogrande



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Bandits & Outlaws, DCBB, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2017, Doctor Sam, Enemies to Lovers, Gun Violence, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Minor Ellen Harvelle/Bobby Singer, Minor Ruby/Sam Winchester, Outlaw Castiel, Outlaw Dean Winchester, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Train Robbery, Villain Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 89,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: Dean is a sheriff in a tiny town in Colorado, restless and unsatisfied with his life. It's not like what he's read about in the dime novels since he was little, capturing dangerous outlaws and being the last word of the law. More like tossing the town drunk in a cell to sober up when they get a little too rowdy.But Dean's chance comes when a thief rolls through their town. He pursues the thief, which puts him right into the path of Emmanuel, a notorious outlaw. When he is captured by the outlaw and his gang to be held for ransom, Dean starts off on a journey he could have never envisioned, and learns that perhaps there's more to Emmanuel than meets the eye.





	1. The Thief

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was an incredible labor of love. An amazing thank you to feredir, my artist, who put up with my strange and unusual writing habits, and thank you so much to the organizers of the DCBB. this has been the best stressful couple months of my life.
> 
> [and how good was the timing of the s13 episode tombstone, y'all. I mean, really.]
> 
> DCBB Masterpost [here](http://deancasbigbang.tumblr.com/post/167959203335/title-vagabonds-author-chevrolangels-artist)  
> Art post on tumblr [here](http://feredir.tumblr.com/post/167956698999/vagabonds-dcbb-2017-author)  
> My tumblr [here](http://chevrolangels.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Love, chevrolangels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> suggested listening: [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rABGJao5ufU)

  

 

 

 

 

The rifle is cool in his hands, the sun hot on his neck.

 

The sheriff thumbs the trigger, swallowing dryly. He’s had his eyes on the bastard for near twenty minutes now. He’s been urging him silently closer, under his breath, ever since he poked his nose up out into the valley.

Dean angles his head down, letting the rim of his hat block the glare of the rising sun. He inhales slowly, then lets it out in one steady breath.

 

The thing pads forward, slowly moving in the desert below. Dean blinks a trickle of sweat from his eyes, tipping his head forward. The desert landscape is sharp and jagged in front of him, and he tracks every inch of it through the scope of his rifle.

 

He doesn’t move a muscle.

 

There—a sudden flash of tan fur. The mangy coyote slinks behind a scrub bush, then emerges again, sniffing towards the direction of the trap Dean set up. Dean slowly cocks the gun, his finger tightening on the trigger.

“Come on, you bastard,” he whispers, as the coyote hesitates, tilting its head and peering at the meat. It inches closer, and Dean holds his breath, squeezing one eye shut, taking aim. Just a few more feet…

 

“SHERIFF!”

 

Dean jerks in surprise and the rifle echoes with his shot, missing the coyote by yards. The thing immediately bolts, and Dean curses, scrambling up. He quickly takes aim again, but it’s long gone by now. He throws his hat to the dirt, swearing under his breath as the boy comes up behind him, huffing from the climb.

“Mr…Sheriff Winchester…I—“

“What?” Dean growls, whirling on him.

The boy shrinks back, losing his words. Dean shakes his head, breathing out slowly. The poor kid can’t be more than ten.

“What,” Dean says again, trying to keep his tone civil.

The kid fidgets under Dean's glare, wiping his forehead, darting his gaze up to Dean’s face then back down at his shoes. Dean sighs, grabbing his hat from the ground.

“Spit it out, kid.”

The boy swallows, still looking nervous.

“Well, it’s just yer—your, uh—“

Dean places his hat back on his head. _Send the tongue-tied to deliver a message, why don’t ya._

“Doc wants to see you,” the kid finally finishes.

Dean looks at him.

“And the high and mighty doctor couldn’t come fetch me himself?”

The kid looks sheepish.

“Said he was busy.”

Dean sighs again, grabbing up his rifle.

“Well, we best go see what he wants then, don’t we?”

 

The boy gives Dean a shy smile, then takes off back down the hill, fast as his legs can carry him. Dean glances back at the desert, sighing. He guesses Carver’s chickens will just have to sleep uneasy for another night.

Dean trots down the hill, down the slope to the main street, quiet, even at this hour. He tips his hat to the Murphys as he passes them, and soon comes to regret it when the woman shoves her daughter forward, hissing in her ear in a less-than subtle manner.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” the girl says meekly.

Dean clears his throat, returning the greeting before speeding up, cutting off the chance for a conversation. Mrs. Murphy is far too keen to have a sheriff as her son-in-law, so Dean is just as eager to keep his distance. He hasn’t exchanged maybe five words with the girl, and besides, she’s barely seventeen years old.

Dean reaches the jail, stopping in briefly to drop off his rifle, which he hangs neatly back on the wall. The cell is empty, as usual, and he’s sure no one has stopped by in the couple hours Dean’s been gone. Which makes Sam’s summons even more of a mystery.

 

“Sam?”

 

Sam looks up, his eyes refocusing a little under his glasses.

“Dean. You’re here.”

Dean enters the small room, shrugging.

“You called me.”

Sam pushes back from his workstation, dropping whatever contraption he had been working on.

“Bill Taylor stopped in,” he says in a tired voice, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes. “The usual.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He had been expecting that.

“And I’m supposed to straighten him out again, is that right?”

Sam laughs.

“That’s what they pay you for.”

“Not very much,” Dean grumbles, moving towards the window. He pushes back the curtain, looking out to the street. He can just barely see the inn from the window, where Taylor is sure to be rousing up a storm. He better go before Pamela gets too fed up and throws a bottle at his head.

Dean sighs, dropping the curtain. Another day, another drunk.

 

He glances back at his brother, taking in his getup, the tools spread out along the side table.

“You got an appointment today?”

“Mmhmm.”

Sam stands, pulling back his hair and tying it before walking over to the water basin, dipping his hands in the water, starting to scrub them thoroughly.

“Avery’s coming in. Needs a tooth out.”

Dean grimaces. He’d never admit it to Sam, but the thought of him digging around some poor bastard's mouth makes Dean's skin crawl.

“Anything else?”

Sam dries off his hands, gesturing vaguely towards the windows.

"Since you're already going to the inn, Pam mentioned she wanted to speak to you, too."

“Really?” Dean crosses his arms. “What’d she want?”

Sam shrugs.

“Don’t know,” he says. “She just said it was urgent.”

Dean groans, sinking his head back. He’d been up on that ridge for nearly three hours, and still nothing to show for it. And now he had to go deal with Taylor, and Pam being her usual self.

“Dammit,” he mutters, and turns towards the door.

“Be nice,” Sam calls after him.

Dean makes a rude gesture over his shoulder.

  

He steps out into the street, the soft mud squishing under his feet. Last couple days there were a few showers of rain, which left everything soft and mucky, and Dean’s boots are a mess by the time he crosses Pam’s doorstep.

The usual crowd is there, a couple men playing at faro, one of the serving girls sitting at a stool by the bar, looking bored. Dean nods to her as he passes, approaching Pam at her usual perch.

Instead of looking happy to see him, she scowls, setting down her rag.

“About time,” she says shortly.

“Wonderful to see you too,” Dean says dryly. “Why you calling me over here in the middle of the day?” He scans the place, relieved when he sees Taylor is nowhere to be found.

Pam looks around too, before she leans forward, lowering her voice.

“Couple coins went missing from the bar,” she says.

Dean frowns.

“Bill?”

Pam shakes her head.

“Nah. New feller. Staying in one of my rooms, checked in last night.” She looks up again, giving a slight jerk of her head. “That one, with the shifty look in his eye."

 

Dean glances over, peering to where Pam’s indicating. The bar is mostly empty, so it’s not hard to pick out the unfamiliar face.

 

A short man, with a grizzled beard, nursing a beer. Shifty is right. The man is jumpy, looking around every couple seconds, hand twitching on his glass.

Dean turns back to Pam, wiping his nose.

“You see ‘im do it?”

Dean’s only slightly poking fun. Pamela’s blind in her right eye.

She turns her sharp left one on Dean now.

“I just know he did,” she says hotly. “I got a sense for men like him.”

She looks back at the man at the table, face twisted in dislike.

“That one’s a troublemaker.”

Dean sighs, leaning against the bar.

“Pam…”

Pam glares at him, and Dean shrugs his shoulders.

“Look. I can talk to him, but I can’t do nothing if there’s no proof,” he says.

Pam purses her lips. Dean huffs a breath, dropping his head.

He pushes himself away from the bar, striding over to the man. Dean can tell the man senses his approach, but is desperately avoiding eye contact.

 

Dean stops right by his elbow.

“Howdy.”

The man abruptly looks up, his eyes shifting away just as rapidly, hand yanking back from the table. He swallows thickly, giving a tiny nod.

Dean gestures at the chair, but doesn’t wait for permission before sitting down. He leans back, folding his hands.

“Name’s Winchester. I’m the sheriff of this town.”

The man's eyes bulge, and he twists his head, staring at the drink in front of him.

“B-Butler,” he says shortly. “Marv. Marv.”

“Well, Marv,” Dean says genially. “You stopping? Passing through?”

The man’s silent for a moment.

“On my way to Powderhorn,” he says eventually.

Dean nods.

“Fine city.”

“Mmm.”

 

Dean taps his fingers on the table. 

"Well!"

He stands, smiling.

"Nice chattin' with you."

He gives Butler a brief nod, then takes his leave.

“You have a good evening.”

The man barely acknowledges him, hands clasping around his glass. 

Dean gives a little shrug of his shoulders and small salute as he passes Pam.

Her scowl follows him out the door.

  

Dean heads back down the street, glancing up at the sky. Clear for now, but there's a hint of clouds in the air, and it smells like rain. Again.

He turns up his collar, huffing.

Pam might be irritated with him for a while, but she’ll get over it. Dean has rules. He’s not like these other sheriffs who’ll throw a man in jail for simply breathing wrong. He rubs his hands together, looking at the blue expanse above him. Innocent until proven guilty. That's just the way it goes. He passes by the sheriff's station again on his way back, the faded wanted posters fluttering in the slight breeze, sign hanging askew. Their porch creaks when Dean reaches the top of the steps, and he makes a mental note to find some time to fix it tomorrow.

Sam sees him and comes out to greet him, wiping his hands.

“What’d Pam want?”

Dean shrugs.

“Being paranoid again. Thinks she’s gonna get robbed.”

Sam smiles, shaking his head. Dean heaves a heavy sigh and sinks into the chair on the porch, taking off his hat. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, catching his breath.

Then he notices the rag in Sam’s hands, and the rusty red he's currently wiping off onto the cloth. Dean shudders, tipping back the chair.

“I ain’t letting you nowhere near my teeth,” he says, placing his hat back on his head.

Sam snorts.

“Your jaw starts giving you stabbing pains every minute, you might change your mind.”

As if on cue, Avery hobbles out, clutching his jaw and looking cross.

“Soft food for the next couple of days. And stay out of the whiskey!” Sam calls after the man, who waves him off, walking off down the street toward the inn.

 

Sam shakes his head and turns to Dean, who’s taken off his coat and draped it behind him, trying to fend off some of the heat. Dean peeks an eye open at him.

“You gonna help me when the coach comes in?”

Sam nods.

“Good. Should be about a half hour,” Dean says, closing his eyes and leaning back.

“Enough time for lunch,” Sam’s voice rumbles, then the sound of his footsteps back into the house. Dean calls after him.

 

“You better wash your hands!”

 

x

 

The coach is late.

Dean swats his hat on his thigh, trying to get off some of the dust. Ain’t nothing new. Frank’s never been the most punctual driver, but he’s been doing it for longer than Dean’s been alive, if Pam is to be believed.

He eyes the hat critically before cramming it back on his head, just as a shout comes from up the road, signaling the coach’s arrival. Dean stands up and shouts a hello, raising his hand as Frank pulls the horses to a stop in front of the general store, clucking his tongue softly.

“Alright, Frank?” Dean asks, hurrying to get the door. Frank just grunts.

The few bedraggled passengers quickly file out—a businessman, an older couple whose clothing marks them as upper-class. Dean guesses they’d never set foot in this town if they didn’t have to—but it’s near forty miles to travel the valley, and Creede is the only place to get supplies and fresh horses before the last leg into Ridgeville.

“Ma’am,” Dean says respectfully, tipping his hat to the older woman. She glances at him, giving Dean a curt nod before her husband places an arm around her, quickly ushering her inside into the general store.

Dean rolls his eyes, but hops up onto the footplate of the carriage, holding onto the railing with one hand.

“Got anything for me?” He asks, grinning.

Frank coughs, turning a bleary eye over toward him.

“S’pose.”

 

Dean waits eagerly as Frank produces a small dirty bag, pulling it from a box behind him on the coach. Frank closes the box and hands the letters to Dean, before he sits back, wiping at his nose. The rest of the post'll go to Garth at the office, but Dean gets all of the official announcements and memos from the county, simply addressed to 'Sheriff of Creede'. Dean digs eagerly into the bag, ignoring Frank’s baleful stare. He shifts through the assorted stack, paying special attention to the wanted posters—thinner than last time. Either they’re catching a few of these outlaws, or the lawmen are getting worse.

Dean’s heart sinks as he sifts through the pile, seeing that none of them are from the governor's office. 

Frank seems to be chewing on his tongue, squinting at Dean.

“Expectin' somethin', Sheriff?” He shrugs, readjusting his grip on the reins.  “It’s just the usual.”

Dean closes up the letter bag, ignoring the pit in his stomach.

“Nah,” he says, forcing a smile. He shouldn’t have expected the Marshal to write back so soon anyway.

 

Dean steps back from the driver’s bench, frowning at the gleaming rifle at Frank’s elbow.

“What’s that for?” He asks, nodding towards the gun.

Frank sniffs, rubbing his nose again.

“Some outlaws been roughin' up drivers, near Ridgeville,” he says, huffing. “I told ‘em up at County that this is the safest route I got—but management insisted.” Frank shrugs one shoulder. “Ain’t had to use it yet.”

Dean purses his lips.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

 

They're quiet for a moment, then Frank whistles softly to his horses, and they perk up, pawing at the ground. They’re eager to get to the stables, too.

“Do me a favor, tell those fancy folk I headed up to the inn,” Frank says.

And without waiting for a response, he tugs on the reins and the horses start the walk off down the main street, leaving Dean in front of the general store.

“Great,” he mumbles.

 

x

 

After dealing with the fussy couple and the very rude businessman (he tried to _tip_ Dean, for god’s sake), added on to his earlier disappointment, he’s not feeling very generous. So when he sees Sam, with his big boots on _his_ desk, Dean scowls.

He clomps up the steps and places the posters on the desk, dropping the heavy letter bag into Sam’s lap.

“Don’t you got a room of your own?”

Sam shifts the heavy bag off of him, letting it fall to the floor with a thud.

“Why?” He sasses back. “‘Cause it’s so damn busy here?”

Dean looks around, at the empty cell, the bare walls. Damn this town.

“Besides,” Sam says, poking at the posters. “Light’s better in here.”

Dean sighs, crossing his arms and looking away. Sam had picked up his book again, but he lowers it, squinting at Dean.

“What’s the matter?” His eyes widen, going to the bag of letters on the floor. “Did you get something back?”

“No.”

Dean starts pulling out drawers on the desk, yanking them out with a little more force than necessary.

“Probably won’t even bother,” he mumbles.

He finally finds what he’s looking for, the couple of nails stashed in the third drawer, and looks up to see Sam giving him the _look_. Similar to the one Dean saw on Carver’s mutt last week.

“It's fine,” Dean says shortly. “Besides, I’m needed here.”

Sam looks like he definitely does not agree with that, but he keeps his mouth shut. Dean scoops up some of the papers, tossing them in his brother’s direction.

“Help me with these, would ya?”

 

The job would’ve been easy to do on his own, but it goes faster with two. And Dean likes seeing the faces of the outlaws, tellin' stories and guessing what each might have done. Sometimes he thinks this is the only thing he and Sam can talk about anymore.

“Ugly son of a bitch, ain’t he?”

The man on the poster leers up at him, beady black eyes underneath bushy brows. Dean pulls a nail from his mouth and pounds it into the poster, staking it to the wall, for all the town to see. If they even care.

“Three hundred dollars. Barely even worth it.”

Sam’s got a better prize, someone wanted for stealing livestock, going for a pretty thousand. He tacks it up next to Dean’s, holding out his hand for the hammer.

“I heard they caught some of these cattle rustlers. This one’s part of that gang, I’ll bet.”

Sam places the nail at the top of the paper, hammering it in with a few deft strokes. Dean shrugs.

“Probably.”

He rolls out the next one, smoothing the curled corners. He waits for Sam to finish, eyes scanning over the older posters, the ones Dean still stubbornly maintains. Some are near faded, stained, bleached by the sun.

Emmanuel’s wanted poster is front and center, proclaiming him dangerous. They don’t even have a sketch, just his name.

Bounty’s the same. $15,000.

 

Dean lets out a low whistle.

“Emmanuel must’ve pissed off somebody to warrant that much,” he says, almost to himself.

Sam leans over, sees what Dean’s looking at, and snorts.

“Well, ain’t no way that’s the government payin’ that.”

Dean glances at him, taking the hammer.

“How d’you figure?”

Sam shrugs, leaning against the wall.

“Doubt they could even manage it.” He indicates the poster again. “That’s a railroad bounty.”

Dean turns back to the faded poster, contemplating it.

“Be nice to have that kinda money,” he muses.

“Yeah, right,” Sam snorts. “Like any outlaw would come through this town.”

 

He seems to realize what he’s said a moment later, looking guiltily at Dean’s sour face.

“Hey, I—" Sam breathes in quickly. "I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” Dean says, viciously hammering in the last nail. “Nothing ever happens here.”

He stalks back inside, conscious of Sam following him. Dean throws the hammer on the desk, dropping into his chair.

“Can’t remember the last time I arrested someone,” he mutters bitterly.

Sam bites his lip.

“What about Bill?”

Dean glares at him.

“Bein’ too drunk to get on your horse doesn’t count, Sam.”

Sam shrugs sheepishly.

 

Dean sighs, taking in his tiny office. Barring the desk, the ugly wallpaper, and the one window, there ain’t much. They don’t have room for two cells, let alone the equipment to hang someone. If they ever did, they’d need to send ‘em to Blackwater, nearly two days’ ride away. Guess if Dean ever did sentence someone, the man would have plenty of time to pray to his god on the way to the gallows.

“Say you did get one of these guys.”

Sam sits on the desk—something Dean’d normally scold him for—but he knows Sam’s trying to cheer him up, so he lets it be.

“What would you do with fifteen thousand dollars?” Sam asks, crossing his arms.

“Fix the leak in our roof, for starters,” Dean grunts. Sam huffs.

“I’m serious, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t answer and Sam rolls his eyes, standing.

“I think I’d like to move out to San Francisco,” he says, looking out the window onto the street. “Start a practice there.”

Dean looks down at his hands.

“I’d pay to go out to Utah,” he says, voice quiet. “Find out what happened to Bobby.”

 

Sam turns, mouth open, as if about to speak. But when he catches sight of Dean’s face, he stops, eyes dropping to the floor.

 

“Sheriff!”

Dean looks up. A sweaty-faced Garth is waving at him from the street, running up toward the steps.

Dean stands and Sam follows him out to the porch, just as Garth reaches them, huffing and out of breath.

“Hey, Sheriff,” he puffs, placing a hand on his knees. “Glad I—glad I caught ya.”

Dean glances at Sam, who hides his smile with a cough.

Garth manages to catch his breath and straighten up, brandishing something in Dean’s direction.

“You got a letter to the post office—addressed to you, not the Sheriff.”

Dean’s heart kicks up. He sees Sam glance at him, but Dean ignores him, instead taking the letter from Garth.

“Which is why they musta not sorted it out,” Garth says, smiling wide.

 

Dean briefly glances down. It’s from the Governor’s office. An official letter.

Sam comes up behind him, trying to see, and Dean hastily tucks the letter into his pocket.

“Thanks, Garth,” Dean says. Garth gives a cheery wave, and starts back up the street, up to the post office.

“Is it from the Marshal?” Sam asks, sounding excited. Dean brushes him off.

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, pushing past him and back into the office. “But don’t get too excited. It’s probably the same old story.”

 

He resists the urge to rip the letter open right then and there. He wants to wait ‘til he’s alone.

“Okay, well…”

Sam trails off, waiting to see what Dean will do.

Dean gestures over his shoulder.

“You wanna get a start on supper?” He says. “We gotta finish off that meat, ‘fore it goes bad.”

There’s a brief beat of silence, then Sam sighs.

“Fine.”

 

His footsteps sound as he leaves, down the steps and onto the street, heading for home. Dean takes a breath.

He pulls the letter from his pocket and hastily rips it open.

His eyes scan the letter, heart sinking with every word.

  

Dean crumples the letter without bothering to finish reading. It’s just going to be the same shit excuse.

Three years Dean’s been writing. Asking for a way out of this town, a job as a deputy for the Marshal. Dean knows he could do it, he knows he’s one of the best damn shots around. And he’s met some of the deputies they got in the County, they can barely find their own toes, let alone wanted outlaws. They need someone like Dean on their side.

But it’s been a no, every time.

 

Dean lights a match and burns the letter, watching the the edges turn red, then black, curling in until the paper is nothing but scorched ash.

“I ain’t never leaving this town,” he mutters.

  

 

He doesn’t tell Sam, but Dean’s silence and foul mood throughout dinner says enough.

They clean up in silence, and Sam makes sure the front door and the one connecting the office to their house is locked, before settling in with his book. They ain't too worried about thieves—but Taylor has a habit of wandering and forgetting which door is his when he's drunk. 

Dean heads out the back door, down the steps and out to the tiny barn behind their house. His horse flicks her tail when she sees him, pawing at the ground. Dean smiles tiredly, reaching up to rub her nose.

“Hey, girl,” he murmurs. “You alright?”

She ducks her head as an answer, nudging his arm. Dean laughs softly.

“Okay, okay. Impatient.”

He makes sure she’s got enough water and hay, then refills the feed trough, which she goes to immediately. Dean gives her one more tired pat before wandering back inside, yawning.

 

He crosses the tiny room that serves as their kitchen and common room, back to the bedroom. Turning the front parlor into Sam’s office might be convenient for him to see patients, but unfortunately it means the rest of their space is cramped.

Dean shucks his clothes, hanging his coat over the back of the rocking chair in the corner. Boots off, trousers, suspenders. He rolls up his sleeves and sits at the silver basin in the corner, splashing some water on his face—he also makes sure to put some clear petroleum oil on his hand—a burn he got from firing one of the cheap guns that came in from Blackwater.

 

Dean slips into bed, pulling up the thick wool blanket, and finds he can’t sleep.

The light from Sam’s candle throws flickering shadows on the wall, light dancing through the cracked door. Dean watches for a while, his thoughts drifting. The letter comes to his mind, unbidden, and he’s hit with a stab of anger and shame. He had taken a risk again, put his pride on the line, only to have it thrown back in his face.

Dean rolls over, sighing out his breath.

The worst part is he knows exactly why. The lawmen up at the county don’t know him from Adam, and they don’t care to know. The marshal—Morgan, Dean thinks his name is—he’s heard that it’s mostly his friends that he enlists as deputies, which must be why they’re all such incompetent fools. Dean was reading the paper earlier, when he was waiting for Frank—cattle rustlers were becoming a real problem up near the county, and the outlaws had been getting bolder—there was a bank robbery a few weeks back. Daviess County, Dean thinks it was. By none other than Emmanuel.

The outlaw had been tearing a streak across the new lawless West, still in between wilderness and civilization. After the rush for gold, the population boomed, but the law hadn’t followed the masses of people. Too much activity, not enough government. When Bobby brought the two of them out here, he hadn’t dared bring them past Colorado, simply for fear of surviving. California was too much of a gamble. All the gold was gone, and everything else was risky.

So Emmanuel is one of the pack, the new breed of outlaws that had come, hot on the heels of the rush and the war. Some soldiers had nothing else to do, and wandered out west to find their fortune, and found it lay not in the ground, or in the creeks, but behind the barrel of a gun. No one really knows, of course, because Emmanuel is the secretive sort. He's almost like the outlaws of legend in the dime novels Dean used to soak up as a kid—fleeting and shapeless as a shadow—always evading authorities, never leaving more than the echo of his laugh. Rumor is no one really knows what he looks like. It’s all legends and hearsay, some Dean knows must be exaggerated. Some say he’s the devil, or that he's an angel of death, that he kills without thinking. He'd been relatively unknown, just one of the other ruffians rustling up trouble—but after he crossed the state lines into Colorado territory and robbed several of Western Pacific’s trains, they put a price on his head. Suddenly, everyone was interested in Emmanuel. Wasn’t a bounty hunter west of the Mississippi that wasn’t keepin’ an eye out for the man.

Dean knows he’ll probably never pass through their tiny excuse for a town, but there is maybe a small part of Dean that hopes he'll be the one to capture the infamous Emmanuel. That Dean'll be the one to take him down.

 _Not if the Marshal has anything to say about it,_ he thinks.

Dean groans and buries his face into his pillow.

 

This ain’t helping him sleep. He’ll be dead on his feet tomorrow. Trying to get that damn coyote.

Dean huffs. The important duties of Sheriff Winchester.

 

When they first came to Creede, there had been barely enough people to actually warrant a sheriff. But as the number of people staggering from Pam’s bar grew, the people started talking about how it might be nice to have someone official-like to deal with them. In the void of anyone else, Dean got the job.

In their sleepy Colorado town, the biggest crime of the last year had been…well. Nothing. A couple land disputes, settled by friendly discussion, some fights at the saloon—that was pretty much a given. But nothing else. Their town was quiet, their town was civil. Dean didn’t have much to do, most days. Sometimes he entertains the notion of leaving, to Blackwater, or Ridgeville, maybe even further. But their town needs a sheriff, needs a doctor, and Dean just keeps finding more and more excuses to stay. 

Most of it being money. Having a sheriff might be necessary, but they sure don’t pay him like he is. And at four dollars for every arrest—and Dean doing a great deal of nothing on that front—money isn’t exactly flowing in. He’s even taken a couple jobs on cattle drives for some extra money. Sam went to school, an honest proper school, read books and everything so he could help people—but recently he's been refusing people's money. Curse his big heart—if one of the townsfolk can’t pay, Sam simply lets them know it's fine, and that they don’t need to worry. Doesn’t mean he don’t get payment though. Most of the furniture in their house that Dean didn’t make himself is from the carpenter down the way, after Sam managed to keep his boy from dying of measles. They ate like kings for a week when Sam cured the butcher's infection in his leg wound.

But mostly, it wasn’t great for business. For sustaining a life out here. After all, medical supplies did cost money, and no amount of trading or bartering was gonna get Sam’s supplies restocked.

 

It’s a simple life, a struggling life, nowhere near the land or property or money they rightfully had.

But as long as this town needs him, Dean is going to do his job.

 

After a while, Sam extinguishes the candle and retires too. Dean is still up, staring at the stars through the window.

 

Somehow, he drifts off to sleep.

 

x

 

A sharp pounding on the door jerks Dean awake.

 

He bolts up, hand going for the gun underneath his pillow. It’s still dark outside—and in the other bed he sees Sam up too, rubbing at his bleary eyes.

“Dean!” Calls a voice. _“Sheriff!”_

The knocking continues, sharp and insistent. Sam fumbles to light a candle.

“What’s happening?” He asks, voice still thick with sleep.

Dean curses, stumbling over his boots in the dark as he makes his way to the back.

“I’m coming, I’m coming—”

He fumbles with the lock and pulls it open, to see Pam, in her nightdress, cursing angrily at him.

“I told you,” she seethes. “I _told_ you—”

Dean hastily lowers his gun, blinking at her in confusion.

“What’s happened?”

“That man,” Pamela says scathingly. “That man who ran off with half my register!”

Dean feels his stomach drop.

“ _What?”_

“Took a horse too,” Pam continues, shaking her head. “I heard the hooves. Woke me up.”

“When?”

“Not five minutes ago. Opened up the window just in time to see him take off, and when I went downstairs the drawers had been looted.”

Dean’s already turning back into the house, clutching his gun.

“Son of a bitch—”

 

He tears back into his room, throwing on some clothes. Sam is up now, looking alarmed.

“Dean, what are you—”

He cuts off when he sees Pam at the door, and he colors, averting his eyes. Pam is unimpressed.

“Quit blushing, boy,” she says. “I’m sure you seen a woman in her nightie before.”

Sam turns even redder.

Dean’s dressed by now, hastily pulling on his boots and hat, grabbing his saddle bag and his gun belt from the hook by the door. Sam calls after him.

“Dean, what can I do—”

Dean hurries down the back stairs, Pam cursing in his ear the whole way.

He saddles up and gets on his horse, turning her quickly. She paws at the ground, breath visible in the cold air.

“Stay here,” he tells Sam. “Take care of her. I’m going to bring the bastard back.”

Dean looks to Pam now.

“Which way did he go?”

“That way. East,” Pam says, pointing. Dean curls the reins around his hands.

“Trail won’t be too difficult to follow,” he says. He urges his horse down the narrow alley to the main road, then stops, turning back.

“I promise you, Pam. I’ll find him.”

She nods grimly, clutching her nightgown around her.

Dean looks to Sam.

“I’ll be back by midday at the latest,” he says, hoping it’s true.

 

He digs his heels into his horse’s side and she starts off, gaining speed. Dean can’t help a look back. The two of them are frozen on the back stairs, watching him ride off, Sam’s candle tiny and helpless against the black night.

 

The main street is deserted, not a light on in the entire town. Dean gallops toward the east end of town—minutes later he’s passing the last buildings and then he’s out on the trail, only the Colorado desert before him.

 

The trail is mostly dirt and sand for a couple miles, but once he hits the rockier parts Dean is forced to slow. The moon lights the way, but there are clouds—when they cover her up, it gets black as pitch. Dean curses, but he’s unwilling to push his horse any faster—it’s not worth the risk. If she throws a shoe on an upturned rock, then Dean will be stuck out here—and Butler will get away. Better to take it slow and steady, and ride hard when the sun comes up. Besides, the thief is probably dealing with the same thing, and Dean doubts he’s as skilled of a horseman. He had the look about him. Soft, East Coast, probably hasn’t been in the West too long. Hence the stealing.

 

As the sun rises and the sky gradually lightens, Dean coaxes his horse to a gallop. The desert flies away underneath her hooves, wind whipping through Dean’s hair.

As he rides, he’s exhilarated by the thrill of the hunt, but this ain’t for no coyote. Dean's horse is energized underneath him—it’s been ages since she’s been able to run out in the open like this—or perhaps she can feel the urgency in her rider.

There’s only one road really, well-worn by the coach and other riders, leading out to Ridgeville. Any other detour and you got nothing but desert. Besides—not much cause to anyway, most of the trail follows a natural valley, in between sharp steep slopes of sandstone. There were trails, possible paths through the cliffs to the other side, but they were dangerous and easy to get lost in. Nearly everyone followed the main road. Dean follows his hunch that the man would be stupid enough to simply take the road all the way, and it pays off.

Not two hours later, he sees something, up ahead on the trail, and he quickly gains on it—the clear figure of another rider taking shape. Dean grins.

“Gotcha,” he says.

 

He settles low in the saddle, urging his horse forward. She tosses her head, but speeds up, hooves flying over the dirt.

He’s about a hundred yards off when the other horse suddenly veers from the trail.

Dean jerks up.

 

“What the—”

 

The rider disappears into the scrubby hills at the base of the sandstone cliff to their left. Dean swears again.

“Son of a bitch."

He turns the reins and his horse follows the lead, barely slowing, following the path of the other horse.

Lucky Dean knows these hills. He’s passed back and forth between Ridgeville on cattle runs—and every time they drive, seems like a runaway calf gets lost in these hills. So to follow this clumsy rider, a stranger to their parts, into the twisting hills—it's merely an inconvenience.

Dean’s hand drifts down to his belt, feeling the weight of his gun. He can hear the sound of the other horse’s hooves, echoing off the steep rock. He follows the sound, quickly gaining ground.

When they get out of the twisty maze between the hills and out to the plain, Dean is no more than a stone’s throw away. He can tell the man is panicked, and the horse is no better, chomping at the bit, twitchy under an ill-tightened saddle. They’re facing west now, no longer on the trail, but out in the scrublands. To get back to any sort of road, they'll have to go back the way he came.

Dean grimaces. He’s not looking forward to leading the horses and a prisoner back through, all by his lonesome.

“Butler,” he calls out. “This is Sheriff Winchester. Pull up.”

 

The man whips around in his saddle, eyes bugging. He doesn’t stop, but instead looks around for an escape. Dean digs his heels into his horse’s sides, and she speeds, the two of them pulling up on Butler’s right side. Butler darts his eyes to Dean, face paling when he sees how close Dean is. He curls his hands around the reins, and—

Butler jerks back, yanking the horse to a stop. Dean shoots past him—and he curses, pulling hard on his horse’s reins. She makes an indignant sound, tossing her head, but turns, putting Butler back in Dean’s sights.

To his surprise, Butler has dismounted, and is now making a beeline back for the foothills.

“Come on, now,” Dean growls, and digs his heels in.

 

He quickly catches up soon enough, cutting Butler off with a twist of the reins into his path. The man stops for a second—gasping—

But then he's ducking right and barreling past Dean, panting for breath.

“Hey—”

 

Dean twists in his saddle, seeing the fool nearly trip, then start back up, as fast as his fat little legs can carry him.

Dean swears again, turning his horse on a dime, setting off towards the man once more. But Butler keeps zigzagging, huffing and puffing, just evading Dean as he’s pulling up beside him.

“Wouldja—”

Marv panics and dodges, cutting to his left, his hat falling off in the process. Dean turns his horse’s head, trying to corner the man.

“Would you quit actin' a fool?” He yells.

Dean briefly considers pulling his gun and firing a warning shot, but with the way the man is dartin’ back and forth, he might actually hit him.

“Give it up, Marv,” he calls. “Ain’t no way you’re outrunning me.”

The man doesn’t listen, and darts back towards his horse.

“Dammit—”

Dean slides off his saddle, hitting the ground hard. The man immediately sets off, but Dean sprints after him, and is on Marv in a heartbeat.  
He tackles him and they go sprawling, scuffling in the dirt.

 

“C’mere, you—“

 

It feels like wrestling that damn dog Sam found of the streets when they were kids—trying to grab this weasel, chasing him around, kicking up dust. Dean is sweating and this is the most undignified thing he’s ever done—hang being a sheriff, hang doing the right thing, hang this son of a bitch for wasting his goddamn time. Dean’s got several inches of height and far less years—but the man is wild, scratching and clawing against him. It takes Dean a couple seconds to overpower him, and he finally grabs Marv by the scruff of the neck, shoves him to the dirt, and pins his hands behind his back. Dean reaches back for his gun—

Marv twists and sends his knee up, directly into Dean’s stomach. It knocks the wind out of him, sending him sprawling backwards.

 

When he manages to regain his breath, Marv is scrambling away, trying to stand—

Dean throws out a hand, grabbing his leg. Marv struggles, kicking out at him. Dean growls, grip twisting tighter, his vision still dancing. Christ—when he’d imagined arresting someone, it certainly hadn’t been this—wrestling a pot-bellied old man in the middle of the desert.

Marv jerks away and Dean is knocked flat on his back, again—and he blinks, disoriented, wondering how Marv managed to get one over on him again—when he sees Marv too, flat out on the dirt only a few feet away.

 

  
Dean whips his head around.  The sun is blinding, but there—

He sees a long shadow, the butt of a rifle—

 

And then everything goes black.

 


	2. The Sheriff and the Outlaw

Dean wakes groggily.

 

He cracks open his eyes, wincing at the bright sliver of light.

He can tell it’s midday, maybe later. It’s hot, much hotter than the morning had been. Jesus. He must have been out for a coupla hours.

 

Dean shifts, a dull throbbing shooting through his head. He groans, reaching up to check the damage.

Something restricts his movement, and Dean freezes, looking down.

His hands are tied.

 

“Well, howdy there, Sheriff.”

 

Dean looks up.

 

A dark shadow approaches him, and it steps in front of the sun, the man's features thrown into sharp relief. A mischievous grin and two cruel eyes smile down at Dean.

“Glad to see you’ve rejoined us,” he smirks.

 

Dean jerks backward, trying to scramble away. But the pain in his head stops him, and he hunches over, groaning.

“Easy.”

Another figure approaches, behind the first man’s shoulder. Dean looks up, trying to see through the haze of pain. It’s a woman—her voice tells him that much—with a thin willowy figure, hat shading her face.

“You’re not going anywhere, cowboy, take it slow.”

The first one speaks again.

“What’s your name?”

 

Dean ignores him, instead sitting up, looking around. The bright Colorado sun stings his eyes, going straight to the pain echoing in the back of his skull.

“Where’s—where’s Marv?” He croaks out.

“The little thief?” The man chuckles. “Don’t worry. We took care of him.”

“He won’t be stealing from anyone again,” the woman says.  
  
Dean feels sick to his stomach. He sinks his head down and feels over his face, fingers numbly touching his cheek. He can already feel it swelling, and he can tell it’ll blacken.

 

The man snickers.

“Sorry about that, Sheriff. But we couldn’t have you causin’ a fuss while we sorted things out with our friend.”

Dean drops his hand, breathing in deep. He closes his eyes for a moment, then attempts to push himself up again, wobbling as another stabbing pain shoots through his head.

The man steps forward, reaching out a hand.

“Here—”

Dean shies backward, out of his reach. He doesn’t know the first thing about these two—he’ll be damned if he lets either of them get a hand on him.

The man stops, affronted.

“No need to be so twitchy,” he says, sniffing. “Only trying to help.”

Dean breathes hard, staring at the pair of them.

“Who are you?” He grits out. “What do you want?”

A pause, and the two of them exchange an amused look.

“Patience, Sheriff,” the woman says, a small smile on her face. “You’ll see soon enough.”

_Sheriff, Sheriff, why does that sound so—_

Dean shakes his head.

“Why do you keep calling me Sheriff?”

“Well. That’s what you are, ain’tcha?”

The man draws Dean’s sheriff star from his coat pocket, grinning. Dean’s hand immediately flies to his lapel, but finds the place where it should be bare. The man must have torn it off him.

 

The man flips the star in the air and catches it, the metal glinting in the sunlight.

“We’re going to have a lot of fun with you,” he says, smiling darkly.

 

Before Dean can respond, there’s a sound—the echo of hooves behind him. The man and woman both lift their heads, staring at something behind him. Dean twists, the best he can, staring at the approaching figure.

 

A rider, coming over the hill, blended into darkness by the sun silhouetted behind him. He rides up swiftly, and comes to a halt, cold black shadow falling over Dean.

 

“Where is he?”

 

His voice is harsh, impatient, and Dean instinctively hunches in on himself, wondering what the three of them have planned for him.

But the shorter man doesn’t even look at him. He just jerks his head, off towards his right.

 

“Over there.”

 

A pause, and then the man swings off his horse. Dean only catches a glimpse of boots, the edge of a long dark coat—and then the man is gone, perhaps to investigate whatever remains of Marv.

 

“Well,” the woman says. “Hello to you, too.”

“And not even a thank you,” the first man says, huffing.

Dean sneaks a glance up at them, wincing in the harsh light. Damn. Where’s his hat? They didn’t steal that from him too, did they?

The two are looking off to the side, after the rider. The woman’s got her arms crossed, a steely look in her eyes. The man is chewing his lip, still turning over Dean’s star in his hand. They don’t look like much, weather-worn clothes and an air of dirtiness that comes from living on the trail. But the money—what they did to Butler—Dean’s starting to realize, with dread, what he’s gotten into. And even if their words and their actions hadn’t been a clue—Dean’d have to be blind to miss the shiny six shooters strapped to their belts.

Outlaws.

 

The second man comes trudging back.

“Did he have it?” He asks shortly. The woman nods.

“Yeah,” she says, pulling something from inside her coat. “All eight thousand.”

Dean blanches. Eight thousand dollars? What the hell was Marv doing robbing Pam’s till?

The woman hands the package over to the man in the dark coat, who unwraps the leather, briefly glancing inside. Dean swallows.

“And still not enough to pay his gambling debt,” the man mutters.

“Well.” The first one chuckles. “He ain’t in debt anymore.”

 

The man in the dark coat wraps up the money, tucking it away into his pocket. 

“You wanna tell me what that is?”

 

Dean stiffens.

 

 

The outlaw’s eyes have turned to Dean. He’s sizing him up, squinting at what Dean knows must be a pitiful picture, tied up and helpless in the dirt. Dean stares right back. The man is tall, sturdily built, the bottom of his dark coat caked in drying mud. A gunslinger’s belt, and a black hat, the face underneath dark with a rough beard, barely healed scratches through his eyebrow. His eyes are hard and sharp as flint.

  
The first one grins toothily.

“We brought you a present, Em.”

He tosses the star towards the dark-haired man, who catches it, looking down at the molded tin.

“He was chasing Butler too,” he says. “Looks like we did his job for him.”

A slow smile spreads across the dark-haired man’s face.

  
He steps up towards Dean, who backs away, but with his hands tied, he doesn’t get very far.

The man squats down in front of him, tipping up the brim of his black hat.

“What’s your name, Sheriff?”

Dean snarls.

“The hell I’m telling you.”

The man just smiles.

 

“We’ll get it out of you soon enough.” He straightens. “You’ll talk. They all do eventually.”

 

He extends a hand. Dean glances at it, then grabs and pulls.

 

The outlaw goes sprawling in the dirt, and Dean scrambles, trying to get his gun. But the outlaw quickly recovers, rolling up and away from Dean, the mirth on his face replaced by a scowl. The other two are laughing.

“Hoo boy,” the shorter man says, chuckling. “He nearly got you, Em.”

“Looks like we picked ourselves a fighter,” the woman says, grinning.

 

The outlaw wipes the dust from his arms, shooting the two of them a glare.

“Thank you for the help,” he growls. The short one laughs again.

“Aww, you were fine. Besides, he can’t do much damage trussed up like that.”

 

Dean struggles up to his elbows, spitting out a last ditch effort.

“They’ll come for me, you know,” he says. “My boys ain’t gonna let this slide. They’ll have every deputy in town looking for me. Twenty men, at least.”

The outlaw pauses at that, glancing back for a moment. Dean pulls himself up, jutting out his chin in defiance as the outlaw’s cold eyes drag up Dean’s form, his lip curling.

“I don’t think so,” he says softly. “Look at your clothes. Shabby. Repaired a dozen times over. And your boots are nearly worn through.” He cocks an eyebrow, the look turning snide. “This town can barely pay one man, let alone twenty. So you know what that means?”

Dean shuts his mouth, grinding his teeth. The outlaw meets his eyes.

“It means you’re full of shit, Sheriff.”

 

The short one snickers. Dean shoots him a glare, before dragging his eyes back to the outlaw in front of him, his gut full of loathing.

“It also means—“ The outlaw grabs Dean and hauls him up before he has a chance to react. “That we’re taking you to the county seat."

Dean shoves his hand off, glaring at him. The outlaw just tips his hat, turning away. Dean stubbornly refuses to move as the rest of them saddle up, pulling themselves up onto their horses. Dean's horse tosses her head nervously, almost as if she’s as bewildered by all of this as he is.

Butler’s horse is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Butler. Dean doesn’t look around for his body. He doesn’t want to know what they did to him.

What they might do to Dean.

 

The outlaw turns his horse’s head, pulling up next to Dean.

“You know how to ride?”

Dean just glares at him. The man holds his hands up.

“‘Scuse me for asking. Look, here’s the deal.” He leans forward, nodding toward Dean’s horse. “We’re lettin’ you saddle up. You can try to run, but you see my girl Anna there?”

Dean glances over. She’s watching them silently, her gloved hands resting on her gun belt.

“She’s the best shot in these United States,” the outlaw says. “Territories too.”

He sits back in his saddle.

“You’ll be dead before you make it three paces. And even if you do...she never misses,” he says.

“Got it. Don’t run away,” Dean says sharply.

 

The outlaw clucks his tongue to his horse, gently nudging his heels into her sides. She turns and starts trotting off down the trail, the shorter one following behind him.

Dean’s left behind with the girl—Anna—glaring at their retreating backs.

“Well?”

Dean turns. The woman rolls her eyes, then dips down—pulling up a dirty brown hat—one Dean recognizes as his own. She tosses it to him, her eyes fixed on Dean, narrowed in dislike.

“You can either ride or run behind your horse,” she says, shrugging. “Up to you.”

Dean grits his teeth, placing the hat on his head. But he swallows his pride and grabs onto his horse’s reins, tugging her towards him. She comes easily, but Dean hesitates, looking down at his hands. Ain’t no easy thing getting on a horse, ‘specially not with hands tied.

 

He finally manages it, with difficulty. The woman watches the entire time, unimpressed, but doesn’t lift a finger to help him. Once he’s ahorse, she turns away, trotting after the other two. For a brief moment, Dean considers it. Turn his horse, and set off for the hills, see how far he can get before—

Before he gets a sharp and deadly pain, directly between his shoulder blades. Dean doesn’t trust the outlaw, but he doesn’t think he was lying about her skill.

Dean sighs, and turns his horse after the woman, following her down the trail.

 

They catch up soon enough, and before long they settle into the rhythm of traveling, the four of them following the worn trail through the desert.

 

x

 

They’re heading north, Dean can tell that much.

 

The county seat is about six days’ ride away, place called Canon City. One of the towns that boomed after the rush, and assigned a government as consequence. Dean’s never been, but he’s heard the stories. Nicknamed Hangtown, ‘cause all the criminals they hang there.

Maybe they’ll manage to hang three more.

 

Dean takes a moment, giving himself a quick once-over. His head is still throbbing, but the rest of him seems okay. Perhaps a little banged up and bruised. They took his gun though—he expected as much. But they didn’t know about the small knife in Dean’s boot, the one he’d started carrying out of habit, for emergencies. But how to get it without them noticing?

He’ll just have to wait for another stop. Dean’s stomach grumbles, and he scrubs a hand over his eyes, groaning. He hopes it’s soon.

 

The three outlaws, for their part, haven’t said much. A couple grunted words, a direction, a brief exchange of a canteen. Dean’s feet have long since gone numb in the stirrups.

He figured it out a few miles back. With no conversation to overhear and the endless miles on the hot trail, there's little else for Dean to do but think. Dean might not have had much experience with outlaws firsthand, but he knows their type. Men who are only after one thing, and would do anything to get it. Money.

They’re going to ransom him out to the state. Dean’s heard of it before—men’ll nab an unsuspecting lawman and demand the government pay to have him back, safe and sound. And the worst part is, the county’ll pay. They’ll shell out whatever ridiculous price these criminals are asking for, and they’ll walk away scot free. It’d look pretty bad in the papers if it got out that the government didn’t bother to pay to get one of their own men back.

They stop at a station that advertises itself with a rusted sign as just south of Cloud Gate. There’s hardly a soul around, just the station master, with his toothless mouth and black cap, gawking at them through the window. The leader doesn’t pay much attention to him. He brushes back his coat, taps his fingers, once, just to draw attention to the revolver on his hip. The station master disappears after that.

The outlaws help themselves, to water, to the rations stocked in the closet, but give the dollars in the till a miss. Dean can’t help but wonder why.

 

The short one’s standing at the trough, watering the horses, and Dean stands, wiping his brow of sweat.

“Hey, uh...I gotta…”

The outlaw looks up briefly, raising an eyebrow.

Dean clears his throat.

“I need to...you know,” he says, making a lame gesture with his hands.

The man looks at him for a moment, then turns back to the horses.

“I ain’t stopping ya,” he grunts out.

Dean looks at the outlaw. Then down at his tied hands. Then back at the outlaw.

“Do you mind?” He says, letting a sharp edge creep into his tone.

The man sniffs, but doesn’t look up.

“I think you’ll manage just fine.”

 

Dean stares at him in disbelief for a moment, but when no help seems forthcoming, Dean turns on his heel, stalking off towards the tall grass by the tracks.

He trundles off into the old weeds, glancing back over his shoulder. He should be hidden from view by now.

 

Dean sits and fumbles at his boot, yanking at it, grabbing at his laces with clumsy fingers until it loosens, and he’s able to wiggle his foot free. He scrapes inside for the blade, closing around the handle. He pulls it out, smiling at the little flash of silver in his palm.

 

He’s standing just as the short one comes to look for him. He stops just at the edge of the tall grasses, squinting at Dean.

“What?” Dean says defensively.

The outlaw purses his lips, but turns away without a word.

 

Back at the station, the other two are packing away the last of their loot in their saddlebags, attaching a few to Dean’s horse’s saddle. Dean holds the blade flat in between his hands, exhaling. This ain’t going to be easy.

Dean wiggles the blade down in between his wrists. It stays, but just barely. If it drops when he’s getting on his horse, then he’ll be back where he started, with no weapon and no way of getting free. Either that or he nicks himself—and the outlaws might notice if he starts bleedin’ everywhere.

He manages it, somehow. Dean feels the blade cutting into his arm, but the short one’s riding next to him, and he can’t risk moving it now.

 

A couple miles out, the trail becomes too narrow, and they settle into single file, Dean at the back.

Dean rides slightly behind them, eyes wary. And slowly, he slides the blade into place, and starts to drag the sharp edge across the ropes. Slip, slip, drag, and one by one, the bonds begin to fray.

When the last one breaks, Dean nearly cries in relief and exhaustion. He glances up, allowing himself a quick moment before he pretends to wrap his wrists again. He tucks the blade away into his belt.

 

Now they don’t know Dean has his hands free. He just has to wait for his chance.

 

He looks at the outlaws, and wonders if he knows any of their names. News was slow to get to their town, and oftentimes the men and women who struck towns robbed ‘em dry and never stayed long enough to give a name.

The golden-haired one, shorter, more wiry—Dean could beat him easy. He hasn’t shown any impressive feats of strength so far, and Dean is sure he could take him in a one-on-one fight.

The girl was the bigger problem. With a gun in her hands, Dean’d be dead—one shot to the head and that’d be the end for him. But when she takes her belt off to turn in for the night…

That only leaves the leader.

 

The dark-haired outlaw is probably Dean’s biggest threat. He's just about as tall as Dean, looks just about as strong. Dean isn’t sure, but he thinks he’d probably match him in a physical fight. Dean would need to take him by surprise.

 

He’s so lost in his planning he doesn’t notice until they’re called to a halt. The three of them are getting off their horses, the short one digging around in one of the bags. Dean watches warily, but makes no attempt to move.

 

The man in black comes over, looking up at Dean.

“Gotta get off your horse if you want somethin’ to eat,” he says.

Dean doesn’t respond, just stares determinedly ahead. The outlaw shrugs.

“Suit yourself.”

 

He goes tromping off to where the other two have started a fire, heating something up over the flames. Despite himself, Dean’s stomach rumbles. Whatever’s in the pot has his mouth watering, just at the smell. He hasn't eaten since the previous night, and dammit, if he’s gonna have a chance in hell against these three, he needs his strength.

Dean hops off the horse, still trying to maintain the illusion that his wrists are bound, and sits without comment, still staying stubbornly silent. The man and girl exchange a look, but hand him a plate.

Christ, he’s starving. Dean scarfs it up, every last carrot and chunk of potato, wiping up the remnants of the stew with a bit of brown bread they give him. None of the others speak either, eating in silence.

Dean sets down to plate, looking up to see their leader watching him. Damn. Those eyes’ll make a man’s blood run cold.

Dean doesn’t intend to let the man intimidate him, but after a few moments he has to look away. He makes as if to stand, when the outlaw speaks.

 

“Here,” he says. “Let me check those bonds.”

 

The man stands, walking over to Dean. Dean's mind races wildly. Damn, he must’ve seen—

The outlaw reaches for his wrists and Dean surprises him, socking him in the gut. The outlaw doubles over and Dean takes the chance to get a good hit in, knocking him to the ground.

Dean spins, thoughts whirling, which outlaw to attack next, who to—

A hand grabs his ankle and Dean goes tumbling backwards.

For the second time that day, Dean’s back hits the ground. The outlaw is on top of him before Dean can get his breath back—shoving him and struggling to get a grip on his wrists. Dean fights back, wriggling underneath him, trying to get leverage. He gets an elbow loose and sends it into the man’s jaw—knocking the outlaw off him. Dean flips over, struggling to crawl away, scrambling at the knife hidden in his belt. He gets a hand around it, fingers fumbling to flip it open. He finally succeeds, swiping out at the outlaw as he comes after him again—the man jerking back just in time, eyes narrowing. He dodges Dean’s next clumsy swipes, diving to the ground and grabbing Dean’s feet. He yanks him and Dean loses his awkward grip on the knife, losing it in the dirt. He scrabbles for it, kicking out, but the outlaw flips him, shoving him back.

Dean freezes, the cold barrel of a gun pressed to his chin.

The outlaw cocks the revolver, panting.

“Starting to think you’re more trouble than you’re worth, Sheriff.”

 

The others come to stand behind, casting long shadows over the two of them. The outlaw is breathing hard, his eyes fixed on Dean.

“Didn’t think to take his weapons, Gabriel?” He growls out.

“I got his gun,” the short one says sheepishly.

The outlaw doesn’t even look at him. He jams his gun tighter against Dean’s throat, narrowing his eyes.

“You got anything else on you?”

“No,” Dean spits back. The outlaw growls.

“You oughta think real carefully about that answer,” he hisses.

“I don’t have anything,” Dean snaps.

The woman scoffs, walking over and picking up the knife.

“Better check him,” she says, eyeing the blade. “He doesn’t seem quite as dumb as the other lawmen you’re always whining about.”

The outlaw doesn’t answer, just pulls Dean up, keeping his gun to his throat. The short one—Gabriel—comes up behind him, roughly patting him down. Dean doesn’t move, glaring murderously at the outlaw in front of him the whole time. The outlaw’s cold blue eyes don’t blink.

Gabriel finishes and steps back, wiping his nose.

“He’s clean.”

The leader pulls out a pair of cuffs, and snaps them on Dean’s wrists, quick as a snake. Dean curses, yanking at the irons. The outlaw sneers.

“Let’s see you cut through those,” he says.

 

Dean glares at him. The outlaw doesn’t look away.

“Put him back on the horse,” he says curtly. He slides his pistol back into its holster, and quickly climbs back onto his palomino, digging his heels into her sides. The horse whickers and starts trotting, back down the trail.

 

“C’mon, you,” Gabriel says gruffly, jerking Dean up by his collar. Dean doesn’t fight him again, but he doesn’t make it easy for him either. He’s roughly manhandled over to his horse, boosted up and slung over the back like a sack of potatoes. This time they take care to tie him tight, strapping him down. The woman rides up next to Dean, her gun cocked and ready. She glares at him, but says nothing.

The sun beats down, hot and unforgiving. Dean can feel sweat dripping down his temple, see it rolling off and falling to the dirt under him, as the horse plods on, and on, and on.

A dry, baking heat rolls through the valley, and even when Dean was sitting upright, he hadn’t seen a tree in miles.  

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the urge to scream. He’s humiliated—beaten up, hogtied—captured and trussed up by some third-rate band of outlaws, carted off to the county seat so that the whole world will know his shame. What would Father have said?

_Get yourself up, boy._

Dean can almost hear him, rough and sharp in his head.

_They ain’t as fast as you, they ain’t as smart as you. They got three, sure, but you got your brains. Use ‘em._

Dean tongues the inside of his cheek, feeling the ragged hole left by the outlaw’s fist. He spits out red, and breathes in deep through his nose, in, out. He’ll behave for now. He’ll listen, watch, and wait.

 

They stop to make camp when it starts getting dark. They find a sandy little space, amongst the hills at the base of the mountains, where the wind and heat aren’t as severe. They finally let Dean off his horse, and he’s barely getting the feeling back in his legs when Gabriel throws a rollaway and canteen at him, chucking them at his feet.

“No funny business,” he warns. The woman—Anna—is making a fire now, the leader dismounting, leading the horses over to tether. Dean still hasn’t managed to catch his name.

He hears them discussing in low voices, but Dean’s in no mood to eavesdrop. He throws down the pack, flopping down after it, curling up on his side. He’s exhausted and hungry and his pride is sorely wounded, not to mention the ache in his side. He hasn’t ridden this hard or this far in a while. Dean also had managed to stave off the fear, more preoccupied with his thirst and his bonds, but now, lying there, it starts to creep back in. He doesn’t know who these people are, who they might align themselves with, what they really plan to do with him. After the stunt he just pulled, they might decide Dean’s not worth the trouble, and just kill him and dump him in the desert.

Well, if they do, Dean’s not going to go down without a fight.

He sees Gabriel and Anna moving around, getting ready to bed down for the night. It’s finally cooled down some, though Dean’s still sweating, feeling it pooling in the small of his back, making him sticky and uncomfortable.

“I’ll take the first watch,” comes a deep voice behind him. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to breathe.

He can feel the outlaw’s eyes boring into his back.

He doesn’t sleep much, and what little rest he gets is fitful and uncomfortable. After a meager breakfast, they get going again, once again heading north.

Dean spends the next two days watching them, learning their movements, planning his escape. He has to wait for the perfect opportunity.

 

He gets it on the third day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Every chapter's title was inspired by a real-life [dime novel](https://www.google.com/search?q=dime+novel&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi9v8PXj6HaAhVlmuAKHfgMCnQQ_AUICigB&biw=694&bih=611).


	3. Sam Winchester on the Trail, or, Murder at Ridgeville

The clock in the town square strikes half past six. And Dean still isn’t back.

 

Pam had stuck around for a while, refusing to leave, sitting in their kitchen muttering curses. Sam kept himself busy, making them both some bitter coffee that sat untouched as they waited. And waited.

The sun rose, the town slowly came to life around them, and Dean hadn’t returned. Sam wasn’t quite worried yet, Dean was a good rider, a good tracker and hunter, and he could handle a gun. He would be back by noon, surely.

Sam tried to reassure Pam as much, who grudgingly agreed and returned to the inn, threatening to have Sam's hide if he didn’t come fetch her right away once Dean came back.

Sam progressed through the morning, trying to follow the routine. Someone came in with a cough, another needin' some stitches, a sling for the Miller’s boy after he fell from his pony. But as noon came and went, and the hours wore on, a trickle of doubt began to creep in. And now, with every chime of the clock, the anxious pit in Sam’s stomach grows.

Something could have happened. Dean may have gotten lost. Something might’ve happened to his horse. Or maybe he did catch up with the thief, but the man had somehow managed to get the upper hand on Dean. The possibilities are endless. 

Or maybe....maybe Dean had lost the trail. And stubborn as he was, he decided he wasn’t going to give up until he'd found the man. Dean’d chase someone across the territory if it meant keepin’ his promise. Sam decides that must be it.

He sits out on the porch, biting his nails, eyes trained on the main road. At one point, a rider comes into view—and Sam sits up, heart in his throat. But as the figure nears, Sam sinks back, recognizing Garth, who's coming back from his rounds. He gives Sam a cheery wave, which he half-heartedly returns.

 

By nightfall, he’s made his decision.

 

Sam gets one of the older saddlebags from the stable out back, packing it full, everything he might need for a few days on the trail. He even digs out an old tintype of Dean, one they got at the photograph rooms in Blackwater. His brother had dragged him down to Market Street, telling Sam all about how they were finished within five minutes. They’d been selling ‘em two for ten cents, and they’d gone home with a photograph each. Sam never thought they’d have any use for them.

He tucks the photograph into his inside pocket, making sure not to bend the corners. He turns to grab his pack, pausing when he sees the gun belt on the door.

Sam hesitates only briefly before taking it off its hook, pulling out the old six shooter. One of Father’s from before the war. He and Dean used to fight over it, shooting at rabbits and old cans in between chores at the ranch. It was one of the few things they still had of his.

It’s been a long while, but the methodical practice and cleaning and loading the revolver easily comes back, and just before midnight, Sam is ready to set out.

He looks at the supplies in front of him, and suddenly feels lost. Maybe this was a fool’s errand. Maybe he didn’t have a chance in hell of finding his brother.

“But dammit,” Sam mutters. “If I ain’t gonna try.”

 

He spends a few fitful hours telling himself he needs sleep, but as soon as the first rays of light peek over the horizon, Sam is out the door, pack in hand, riding hat pulled down to shield against the glare of the morning sun. He leaves a quick note for Pam, then he heads off east, to the Miller farm. It takes a couple coins and coaxing words, but they let him saddle up a horse, a chestnut with a splash of white across her nose, and soon he’s on the way to the outer limits of Creede, the same way Dean had ridden off.

 

Tracking had been second nature to him when he was a kid, tracing after a lost horse or calf out in the acres of their land, but it’s been years. Sam goes slow, perhaps slower than he’d like, keeping his eyes utterly peeled for any sign. He stops at the junction just three miles out of town, where the trail splits. Sign indicates Ridgeville, Monte Vista, and Canon City. Last one’s nearly 200 miles away. It’d probably take him a week to make it there, providing his horse lasts. Sam worries his lip. He’s not sure he’ll have much choice anyway.

 

He drinks some much needed water, conscious of how empty his canteen feels already. He's gotta slow down, otherwise he’ll be stranded thirsty in the desert.

But Christ, it’s hot. Heat shimmers over the sand, making the trees in the distance dance, dark shapes moving on the horizon.

Sam rubs his eyes. Wait—that's no mirage—there _is_ something. At the foothills to the west. Something picking its way slowly down the slope.

 

Sam quickly climbs on his horse, turning it to the dark shape. He kicks his heels into her sides, and the horse responds, quickly building into a run. Sam leans over the reins, the shape getting clearer by the minute. It's another horse, slowly walking on a hidden trail up the side of the hill.

Sam brings his horse to a trot as he reaches the foot of the hills, careful to not scare the animal away. He brings the chestnut to a stop and dismounts, approaching the last few yards on foot.

The horse lowers its head, sniffing at a tuft of grass. No rider to be seen.

Sam steps into the horse's sight, holding up his hands.

“Hey there,” he says softly. “Easy, now.”

The horse pricks up its ears, but doesn’t move away, more interested in its prize. She lets Sam get right up close, and he places a hand on her neck, taking control of the reins. He pets down her bay coat, scratching slightly.

“Where’d you come from, huh?” 

He looks around, but no sign of anyone. He looks back, peering closer at the saddle.

Sam steps back, blinking. He knows that stitching. It came from the saddlery in Hinsdale, next county over. He remembers the day Cap Masterson came to Pam's inn to show it off.

Sam curses under his breath. This is the same horse the thief stole.

 

He turns his head towards the twisting trail the horse just came from. She can't've wandered too far...maybe the thief decided to abandon her? Doesn't tell Sam anything about Dean's whereabouts, though. The only thing to do is go through the pass where the horse just came from, and see if he can't find anything out.

Sam manages with some difficulty to control the two horses, leading the other one behind his chesnut. The second horse seems slightly irritated to go back the way she just came, presumably because she already divested the path of all its edible grass. Sam goes slowly, vigilant for any sign or sound. The trail spills out on the other side of the hills, but the land still looks the same, more sand, more scrub brush. There’s a lazy creek running its way through the rock a little ways off, a couple crows clustered on its banks. But otherwise, nothing.

No cities, no towns. Sam can’t see anything for miles. But there is a semblance of what looks like a continuation of the trail, leading west, then north.

Sam scans his eyes along the desert sand, looking for anything out of the ordinary. His chestnut flicks her ear, sending a fly buzzing away. Sam slowly walks her forward, squinting through the heat. The crows squawk and scream, they appear to be fighting over something—

A jolt of terror runs through him.

 

He urges the chestnut forward and goes straight towards the creek—the birds scattering as they close in. Sam swings off his horse, running forward—but stops abruptly as the smell hits him. He covers his mouth and nose, coughing.

“Jesus—”

He pulls a bandanna from his pocket, pressing it to his mouth. It helps a little, but the stench is making his eyes water.

One of the braver crows has landed again, edging forward. It skitters around Sam, before dashing forward, beak seizing at the sleeve poking up from the ground.

“ _No,_ get away, damn thing—”

Sam jerks forward and the crow squawks, taking flight. He stares down at the ground, heart pounding.

_No, not Dean, it couldn’t be…_

 

Fighting the urge to retch, Sam squats down, keeping the cloth over his nose. He takes a closer look at the hand, just exposed in the dirt.

The heat and the desert have not been kind, but Sam can make out the wrinkles and the fat of the flesh, as well as a grubby ring on the third finger. Something in Sam’s chest unclenches. Not Dean.

This must be the remains of their thief. Which means Dead _did_ find him. But why would he run, after killing him?

Sam stands, backing away. Maybe it was an accident. Dean’s never had to use his gun on anyone before...perhaps he panicked and fled? No, that made no sense. Dean promised Pam. Dean never goes back on a promise.

Unless…

 

Sam swallows.

 

Unless someone else was chasing the thief, too.

x

 

The rider sweeps by the wanted posters on the way to the local store. His still has no sketch, only the cash reward. The outlaw thought that, maybe, as the rumors spread, someone would attempt to capture his likeness—but so far, nothing. As a result, he’s able to pass through most towns without being recognized.

He tells the clerk what he wants and puts a few bills down on the counter, fighting the itch to light a cigarette.

“Here you are, sir.”

The clerk pushes a burlap bag over, filled with hardtack, brown sugar, and salted beef—but no tobacco.

"Sorry," the man says, shrugging. "We're out."

"It's fine," he mutters, grabbing the bag. But the clerk is looking at him curiously, leaning forward on the counter.

“Say..." He tilts his head. "What didja say your name was again?” 

 

“I didn’t,” Castiel answers.

 

 

He places a hand to his hat and slings the bag over his shoulder, turning on his heel.

 

When he gets back to camp, Gabriel’s already started the fire, poking at whatever’s bubbling away inside. He meets Castiel as he rides up, snatching the bag from his saddle.

“Took you long enough.”

Castiel shrugs and dismounts, pulling off his riding gloves. He sits down heavily by the edge of the fire as Gabriel starts adding things to the pot, stirring it all with a heavy iron spoon.

He looks up, and snorts.

“There he goes again.”

Castiel turns his eyes over to the sheriff, just outside the line of the fire. He’s taken his bedroll and slammed it down, his body following after. He keeps his back to them, not saying a word. It’ll be a cold night without the fire to keep him close, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. And if he does, he’s hellbent on not letting them know. It’s stubborn as hell. 

Castiel huffs. He knows he'd do just the same.

 

Anna takes off her hat, tossing it on the log beside her.

“Let him. All that moping was starting to piss me off anyway.”

She begins to pull her long red hair out of its plait, sighing. Despite her youth, she had taken to the trail remarkably well, but she definitely wasn’t above complainin’ when the time came.

“Damn, I’m beat,” she says, rolling her shoulders. “You sure we can’t stay in an actual hotel for once?”

Castiel glances over, his eyes going to the line of the man’s back.

“You know it ain’t a good time.”

“Ridgeville’s just over the hill,” Gabriel says. “Might be worth it, to get some decent food.”

He stirs the slop in front of him, his nose wrinkling.

Anna echoes as much when Gabriel hands her a plate. Castiel wipes his mouth, swallowing. “It’s a risk. There’s a laborer camp just ahead. Railroad men will be crawling all over the place.”

The two of them continue to badger him all through the meal, and by the time Gabriel’s spoon is scraping the bottom of the pot, Castiel has had enough. He grabs the bowl they set aside for their captive and stands, walking over to the still figure.

“Hey. Sheriff.”

 

Castiel kneels beside him, setting down the plate.

“You oughta eat.”

The man doesn’t turn over, but Castiel isn't fooled. He saw the way the man's shoulders seized up when Castiel spoke. He’s awake.

Castiel stays there for a moment more, studying him.

“Don’t suppose there’s any chance I could get that name.”

 

It’s more of a statement than a question. Ever since Castiel clapped those handcuffs on him, the man’s barely spoken two words, despite all Gabriel’s taunts and jabs.

Castiel can’t blame him. Ain’t no easy thing to lose your freedom like that. But they were running low on funds, and the man had practically dropped himself in their laps.

The first time it had been Gabriel’s idea. A horrible, terrible, dangerously bad idea. But the Sheriff running things in Jackson County had fancied himself a hero, and went gunning after the three of them after he drank up his courage. He’d plain keeled off his horse without a shot from any of them, snoring at their feet. Castiel intended to just leave him there, when Gabriel got that gleam in his eye.

Gabriel has many terrible ideas, that often seem to work out through no merit of his own. Turns out the fellas in Jackson County were willing to shell out five hundred dollars for their drunkard of a sheriff. Easiest money they’ve ever made.

He knows Anna would tell him to just dip into the money they got back from that scumbag Butler, but Castiel won’t. It’s not his money to spend.

 

Castiel laces his fingers together, tilting his head. He huffs a small laugh.

“No. I figured as much.”

He thinks for a moment, then draws the star from his coat. He runs a thumb over the letters, smiling at the word he didn't see before. Gotcha.

“Winchester?” 

That gets his attention. The sheriff suddenly faces Castiel, sputtering in furious shock.

“You—how—”

Castiel tilts his head, lifting up the star as way of explanation. Winchester’s eyes flick down, then back to Castiel’s.

“Like the gun?” Castiel asks, smirking.

Winchester stares at him, a maddened glare that makes Castiel feel strangely smug.

He looks down at the star, flipping it in his hand.

“Got any famous relatives we should be asking for a ransom instead?” He asks.

The sheriff’s face hardens.

“Go to hell,” he snarls.

 

He rolls over again, hunching over on the bedroll. Castiel shakes his head softly, and straightens, tucking the star away into his pocket.

“Already there, Sheriff,” he murmurs.

 

x

 

Dean scoops up a handful of dirt, nice and sandy. He lets it run through his fingers, watching it fall.

 

He heard them talking last night when they thought he was asleep. Twenty miles outside Ridgeville. Gabriel wanted to pass through town, but their leader decided against it.

Gabriel stands, wiping his hands off on his pants, something Dean’s recognized as a telltale sign that he’s about to go empty his bladder. Sure enough, he wanders off soon after, heading around a curve of rock. The dark-haired outlaw’s dousing the fire, but Anna is standing watch, her gun resting on her hip. Dean eyes it warily. She’s the one he has to watch. Even if he runs, she’ll take him down before he can make it ten paces.

Dean digs his hand into the dirt again, crushing it in his fist. He takes a long slow breath.

 

The outlaw finishes packing up and swings onto his horse, and Dean makes to do the same, keeping his hands low, looking demure. He stops next to his horse, hesitating. Anna glances over.

Dean puts on an affronted look.

“It’s hard mountin’ up when your hands are tied, alright?” He says defensively, shrugging his hands towards her. She rolls her eyes, but moves over and grabs his elbow, helping him up.

Dean gets solid in the saddle, his feet snug in the stirrups, and tries to calm his heart. Gabriel’s still gone, and the other outlaw is distracted, murmuring to his horse.

Anna pats his horse’s thigh, raising an eyebrow up at Dean.

“All set?” She asks.

“Yep,” Dean says, and throws the sand in her face.

 

She immediately pinwheels back, sputtering. The outlaw’s hand flashes, but Dean’s already moving. He drives his horse straight for the man’s palomino, and she spooks, rearing and throwing him off. Dean whoops, turning the reins, and the other two horses scatter, scared by the commotion. Dean digs his heels into his horse’s sides, and then they’re riding, fast as they can.

Dean spares one glance back over his shoulder. Anna is down, rubbing at her eyes—and he sees Gabriel emerge, pants halfway down, a stupid shocked look on his face. Dean allows himself a laugh before he turns back to the reins, urging his horse on, into the distance.

 

x

 

He's almost certain they'll come after him—so Dean only slows when he sees a column of smoke, rising on the horizon. He turns his horse’s nose towards the gray cutting through the sky, digging his heels in.

He sees the tents first, the men with wheelbarrows, even women, children, mostly Chinese, all immigrants, from the looks of them. A group of men with sooty faces and pickaxes eye him as he passes, muttering amongst themselves. Dean presses on, keeping his eyes sharp for anyone who might be able to help, somewhere he might be able to hide—but the sharp clank of metal on metal, the rumble of workers pushing carts loaded with rock—it has him on edge.

He looks north, but the camp stretches on and on, next to the freshly laid track. Dean only stops when he spies an anvil, set up outside one of the tents, and quickly swings off his horse.

He dives into the tent, surprising a very startled woman and two children, who shrink back from him, one clutching at a rag doll. Dean holds up his hands to placate them, indicating the cuffs.

“I'm not here to hurt you—please. You have to help me. I need you to break these off—”

He drags the anvil and hammer towards the woman, but she's shaking her head, saying something in a language Dean doesn’t understand.

 

A string of shots shatters the air, punching right through the canvas above his head. The children scream and the woman ducks, sheltering them. Dean slowly lifts his head, heart pounding.

“You come out of there, now!” Comes a voice. “Don’t try nothin’ foolish.”

 

Dean takes a deep breath.

He holds up his hands, and walks slowly out of the tent. There’s maybe six or seven of them, a couple holding rifles. The one in the middle has one trained right on him.

“On your knees,” he orders.

Dean takes a step forward.

“Please—I need your help,” he says. “My name is Dean Winchester, and I—”

The dirt explodes at his feet and Dean freezes.

“Next one’s going in your leg,” the man says.

 

Dean hastily sinks to his knees. He just needs to explain—but he knows when to shut his mouth. The man on the left, big and fat with a bushy beard, approaches him heavily.

“Hoo-ee, what do we have here?” He grabs Dean’s wrist, shaking it.

“He’s got handcuffs on him, Bose.”

“He’s one of them outlaws,” another says.

“Escaped, I suspect,” the bearded man, Bose, says, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol.

Dean shakes his head.

“No, listen—you got it wrong—”

“Mouthy, too,” the second one says.

“Please—”

Dean turns, explaining fast.

“You have to help me,” he blurts. “I’m from Creede, I’m the sheriff there—I was kidnapped by a band of outlaws, they put the cuffs on me, please—”

There’s a pause as the men exchange looks. Dean holds his breath.

The first one slowly lowers his rifle.

 

“Get him,” he says.

 

Dean fights. He does. But he’s exhausted and weakened and his hands are still locked together—and the two biggest men seize him easily, grabbing him by the elbows and dragging him towards what must be the foreman’s shack. The workers watch wordlessly, but none of them try to intervene.

Dean snarls and pulls, trying to dig his feet into the dirt. The bearded one laughs, jerking Dean's arm harder.

“How much you think he’s worth, Hull?”

“Dunno.”

The one with the rifle grins, pointing at the wooden supports.

“String him up.”

Dean kicks out, but Hull socks him in the stomach, and Dean doubles over, groaning. The man seizes his wrists and hauls them over one of the beams, the cuffs around his wrists digging into the wood, just tall enough that Dean’s boots are scraping the ground. Three circle around him, grinning. One pulls a knife.

“Don’t touch his face, Janklow.” The man with the rifle says. “We wanna make sure they recognize him.”

“Yeah, you got a bounty on you?” Bose rips Dean's hat off, seizing his chin. “Winchester?”

“No, _no_ —”

Dean pulls against the shackles, the metal biting into his wrists.

“If you’d just goddamn listen—”

He freezes as the cold edge of a knife is pressed against his throat. Janklow leans in close.

“We ain’t got time for any more lies.” 

Dean can barely balance, leaning away as far as possible from the sharp edge of the knife that's cutting into his throat. He pulls on the cuffs so hard that he feels his wrists start to bleed.

“Now," the man sneers. "Talk.”

Dean spits in his face. Janklow snarls, knife momentarily lowering as he wipes at his eyes.

“We might need him alive,” the man growls. “But he don’t need all his fingers.”

He starts towards Dean—but abruptly stops. He’s staring at something over Dean’s shoulder, his anger slowly turning to confusion. Dean tenses, waiting for it.

“Excuse me, fellas.”

 

Something akin to relief floods through Dean, followed instantly by the hot sting of anger. He knows that rough voice.  

 

He turns as best as he can, looking over his shoulder with difficulty. The dark-haired one is standing there, cool as anything, Gabriel and Anna at his back. Hull steps forward.

“Something I can help you with, mister?”

The outlaw smiles.

“Yessir, I believe you can.”

He glances at Dean, indicating him with a nod of his head.

“See, that man there is my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner?” Hull glares at Dean. “Doesn’t seem like you’re taking good care of him.”

The outlaw doesn't say anything, but his eyes harden. Hull snickers, gesturing with the rifle.

“I reckon we found him. Right, boys?”

The men around him roar with cheers and approval. Hull grins.

“And he’s ours.” His eyes slide to Anna, looking her up and down. “Unless you’d like to trade for your woman, there,” he says, leering.

Anna’s hand twitches.

The outlaw glances over his shoulder at Anna, then back forward. He shrugs.

“If you’d like. You’d be dead within five minutes.”

Hull’s smile drops.

“Hey now.” He slides the rifle off his shoulder. “What’s going on here?”

The outlaw continues staring, those cool eyes unreadable.

“What’s going on...is that I’m giving you the chance to give him back.” His eyes briefly find Dean’s. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“Well, _friend_.” Hull swaggers forward. Several of the others reach towards their belts. “Last time I checked there are six of us, and only three of you. Not exactly a fair fight.”

The outlaw’s eyes are steel.

 

“You’re right,” he says. “It isn’t.”

 

Dean watches them, his throat dry. He ain’t exactly looking forward to being held captive by these outlaws again—it’s just one fire to another.

But hell. Better the devil you know.

Dean just hopes the outlaw knows what he's getting into.

 

The dark-haired one takes another slow step forward, tipping up his hat.

“C’mon, fellas,” he says softly. “Don’t be as dumb as you look.”

 

Hull glowers.

“Don’t believe I caught your name.” He spits in the dirt. “I tend to like to know the folks I’m negotiating with.”

The outlaw lifts his chin, staring directly into the man's eyes.

 

 

“The name’s Emmanuel.”

 

 

Dean freezes.

 

“I’m expectin’ you’ve heard of me,” the outlaw says softly.

 

Some of the men take a step back, faces sliding from confident to uneasy in a heartbeat.

“H-hey,” one to Dean’s right says. “We don’t want no trouble now.”

“That’s a shame,” Emmanuel says. “Looks like you found it.”

 

Despite the sudden loss of confidence of his friends, Hull has a furious look on his face.

“Emmanuel.” He spits the name like a curse. “You killed my kid brother.”

Emmanuel places one hand on his gun belt, tilting his head.

“It's possible,” he says. “I kill a lot of people.”

“Aloysius Hull,” the man snarls. “Six months ago. Costella.”

“C’mon, Reggie,” one of the others says nervously. “It ain’t worth it.”

 

Dean swallows, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. The outlaws are outnumbered, two to one. How the hell are they going to get out of this?

 

Hull swiftly lifts his rifle, aiming it dead at Emmanuel’s chest. The other men react, some shouting, others pulling their guns as well. Emmanuel doesn’t move, just looks to Gabriel, giving the tiniest of nods.

Gabriel darts to the left, and the sudden movement distracts Hull—he follows him with his gun and in an instant Emmanuel is at Hull's side, grabbing his wrist, quick as lightning. Anna’s revolver flashes, and she drops two others before they even realize what’s happening.

Dean whips his head around—Bose is pulling his gun, ready to jump into the fray—and Dean pulls with all his strength, kneeing the man in the groin. He doubles over and Dean kicks Bose again, sending him sprawling. Dean lifts up around the support, sliding his wrists over the end, and then he’s free, ducking as shots echo around him.

Emmanuel knocks the rifle away and sends a punch straight to Hull’s jaw—who hits the ground and is finished with a quick shot. Emmanuel turns, coat sweeping around him as his eagle eyes take in the rest—one fleeing, one taking refuge behind some barrels, sending shots towards the three outlaws.

Dean scrambles, wood splinters flying over him as Anna and Emmanuel return fire—and he spies a six shooter lying abandoned in the dirt. He dives for it, instincts screaming at him—he rolls over and fires blindly, hitting the man who was advancing on him in the gut. Dean falls back to his elbows, the gun slipping away from his hand. The man presses a shocked hand to the bloody wound in his stomach, dropping to his knees.

Gabriel falls on the man behind the barrels, snapping his neck with a quick motion. Anna turns, red hair whipping through the air. Janklow, nearly a hundred feet away, drops.

Dean is unable to move, in shock. But the man in front of him isn’t stopping, shakily lifting his revolver. Thick red drips from his lips, spatters onto the dirt as he takes aim, straight at Dean’s heart.

 

Dean stares at him, mind utterly blank.

 

_Bang._

A shot shatters the air, and Dean flinches, screwing his eyes shut. But when the pain doesn't come, he opens them again, gasping for breath.

The man’s revolver drops to the dirt, he slides sideways, and is still.

 

Dean slowly pushes himself up, shaking.

 

The outlaw— _Emmanuel_ —lowers his gun, white smoke wisping away from the barrel.

Nobody moves a muscle. Dean is utterly still, his mouth hanging open.

 

Emmanuel holsters his pistol. His face is a mask, and he walks up to the body, glancing over the man's still form with a critical eye.

Dean feels his hands shaking. That’s—the outlaw the whole state has been terrorized by—who’s killed countless people in cold blood, one right in front of him—that’s the man that’s been holding him captive?

Emmanuel crouches next to the body, sniffing. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, glancing up.

“Want anything?” He asks.

Dean stares at him.

“Wh-what?” He chokes out.

The outlaw shrugs, then starts unbuckling the man’s belt.

“Out here, it ain’t exactly easy to come by necessities.” He sees the look on Dean’s face and laughs. “Don’t worry. He won’t miss them.”

Dean watches, disgusted, as Emmanuel takes the man’s gun belt, his coat, and starts rifling through his pockets.

“You’re a coldhearted son of a bitch," Dean mutters. "You know that?” 

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Emmanuel looks up. “And?”

Dean holds his gaze for a moment, but then has to look away.

 

Emmanuel stands, beckoning. Gabriel moves over to his side and Emmanuel tips his spoils into his arms, before packing the rest into a canvas bag. Anna appears, holding Dean's hat and leading his horse by the reins. She brings both over to him, holding them out. After a moment, Dean takes them, and she helps him up onto his horse. Dean turns slowly, taking in the damage.

All of them are dead. Any workers who haven’t scattered are watching them with shocked faces from the insides of their tents, hidden behind carts or rubble. None of them dare approach.

Dean looks back, at the man Emmanuel killed—at the man he shot in the stomach. He can’t bring himself to feel guilty for the rest, but this...

Dean feels strangely sick.

Emmanuel moves over to his palomino, strapping the bag to his saddle. He and Gabriel both mount up, turning away from the carnage without a second glance. Dean supposes they've seen worse. They don’t call him the angel of death for nothing.

 

Anna touches Dean’s elbow, surprisingly soft. He turns.

But her eyes are razor sharp, inches from his face.

“I owe you for that trick with the sand,” she says.

Dean swallows.

“Look, I—”

“It was smart,” she says. Dean blinks, looking at her warily. 

Anna just motions for him to step up into the stirrups, and she helps him back on his horse. She pats his horse’s flank.

 

“Like I said.” She smiles. “I owe ya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A [tintype](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tintype) is an early type of photograph invented in the 1850's and popular in the 1860's-1870's.


	4. The Woman in Black

Castiel glances back over his shoulder.

 

They’re all quiet, barely speaking to each other. It’s always like that, after a fight. They all retreat to their own minds, making their own personal peace with what just happened. It’s been almost a year, but it never gets any better—the feeling of taking a life.

 

Castiel drops his head forward slightly, sighing. He stretches out the knots in his neck, rolling his aching shoulders. It'e be nice to spend a night in a real bed—god knows it’s been a while. A few weeks, maybe. And now that they’re tugging along this sheriff, they'll need to get rid of him as fast as possible—no time to stop for luxuries.

He looks back again. The sheriff, Winchester, is nodding in his saddle, head bobbing drunkenly back and forth. He seems to be favoring his wrists, wincing as his horse moves underneath him. 

Castiel frowns, raising his hand.

Gabriel and Anna briefly exchange a glance, but pull up on their reins, slowing the horses to a stop.

 

x

 

Dean’s hardly awake when he feels his horse stop moving underneath him. The shackles had been digging into his wrists ever since they left the camp, chafing and rubbing his skin raw. His horse turns her head, and the manacles scrape his skin, causing Dean to hiss, sucking his breath in through his teeth. The outlaw turns his head at that, sharp eyes missing nothing.

“Here.” He looks back to Anna and Gabriel. “We’ll camp here tonight.”

Dean sighs in relief, slumping forward.

“Off,” Emmanuel says.

 

Dean lifts his head.

“What?”

“Off,” the outlaw repeats, dismounting himself. He starts rifling through one of the saddlebags, his back towards Dean.

Dean stares at him for a moment, then gingerly swings himself off, trying to avoid his raw wrists. The other two outlaws start to unpack, making camp for the night, but Dean can tell they’re watching curiously. Emmanuel turns, holding something in his hands—a roll of linen.

Without a word, he walks up, reaching for Dean’s arm. Dean steps back, pulling away abruptly. Emmanuel raises an eyebrow.

“Well?" He nods at Dean's wrist. "You want that wrapped up or don’t you?”

Dean continues to glare, but after a moment, extends his arms, holding his hands out. The outlaw takes Dean's arm, surprisingly gentle, and unlocks the cuffs, tucking them away in his pocket. Dean briefly entertains the idea of throwing a punch and trying to escape, then discards it. He’s too damn tired.

But he knows sleep won’t come easy to him tonight. Dean’s not exactly looking forward to being left alone with his thoughts, to lick his wounds and curse himself into oblivion over his failed escape. And not only that, but the whole encounter has left him shaken. Dean realizes now—it was one of the first times, in a long time, that he’s been really close to death. He’s in the company of outlaws, sure—but he had never felt the immediate and utter fear of his death until now. Those men....they had been cruel just for the sake of being cruel—and Dean had happened to land in their path.

He can’t stop thinking about it, turning it over and over in his mind. If Emmanuel hadn’t arrived when he did…

Dean exhales, shaking his head.

 

And now, Dean knows he's not going to get another chance at escape. They're going to be watching him like hawks now.

All he can do is pray that Canon City is close.

 

Emmanuel motions towards the middle of camp where Gabriel has started the fire, and they sit next to it, Dean silent as Emmanuel begins to wrap the reddened raw skin of Dean’s wrists, binding them in white linen.

The sounds of Anna and Gabriel’s low conversation fade into the background as Dean drifts, the cool feeling of the bandage finally dulling the aching pain of his wounds. He’s so tired, he can't bring himself to care that he’s sitting inches from one of the worst murderers the West has ever seen.

 

An accidental brush against the scrape on his left and Dean jerks his hand back, the moment broken. Emmanuel glances up.

“Relax.” He takes Dean's left wrist again and finishes tying up the bandage, his hands quick and deft. “Just trying to help.”

Dean can’t help a sneer, turning his head to stare off into the darkening night. Emmanuel purses his lips.

“Some gratitude might be nice,” he mutters, now turning to Dean’s right wrist.

“I got nothing to say to you,” Dean says, incensed by his calm tone.

“I saved your life.”

“By shooting a man in the head,” Dean snaps.

Emmanuel looks up, fire in his eyes, and for a moment Dean is taken aback, petrified by how close he is.

“Out here ain’t no place for morals.”

Emmanuel doesn't blink.

“Sitting up on that high horse will do nothing but get you killed.”

He turns back to his task, but his hands are a little rougher, anger filtering through his movements. Dean’s wrist stings again, but he clenches his jaw, refusing to show weakness.

“Next time you find a man advancing on you with murder in his eyes," Emmanuel says. "You might think differently.”

Dean bites his lip.

 

“I...I did.”

 

Emmanuel’s hands pause. Dean breathes in deep.

“The last one,” he says flatly. “Got ‘em in the stomach before you did.”

Emmanuel stares at him for a moment, then finishes the right bandage. Dean curls his hands back into himself, shaking slightly. Emmanuel doesn’t reach for the cuffs again.

“You ever shot a man before, Sheriff?” He asks softly.

Mutely, Dean shakes his head. Emmanuel looks at him for a long, searching moment.

“Well,” he says finally. “First time for everything.”

 

x

 

Sam pounds on the door again, calling out.

“Hello? Anyone there, hello—”

“Alright, alright, I’m comin’—”

The door slides open and an older man pops his head out, squinting at him.

“What d’you want?” He asks suspiciously.

“You Daniel Elkins?” Sam asks, indicating the sign. The man opens the door a fraction wider.

“Could be,” he says. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Winchester,” Sam says. “I got a horse to sell, if you’re looking.”

The man is much more agreeable after that. He comes out to inspect Butler’s horse, casting a critical eye over the raggy fur and weathered saddle. Sam waits impatiently through the inspection. He’s seen a couple different settlements on the trail, farms and the like, from folks who wanted to stay out of the city. He’d stopped and asked after Dean at every single one, but none had been any help. Most looked at him with suspicion—and Sam couldn’t blame them. With rustlers and reports of more outlaw activity, a strange man coming 'round asking questions wasn’t exactly welcome. Most folks were immediately suspicious of Sam, combination of him being an outsider and his intimidating stature, causing them to clam up as soon as he came near. One woman had pulled a rifle on him and shouted at him to get the hell off her property before Sam could open his mouth and speak a damn word. There had been one or two who were willing to spare some bread, but Sam’s near out of the meager supplies he took with him from Creede. He’s hungry from forgoing a meal the night before, and his side is aching from the riding. Not to mention corralling and dragging along this damn horse with him every step of the way. It's not really Sam's place to sell her, but it's either this or turn tail and head home empty-handed.

“How tall?” Elkins asks, opening the horse’s mouth to check its teeth.

“Fifteen hands,” Sam says. “What’ll you give me for her?”

“Hmm.”

Elkins scratches his chin, spitting in the dirt.

“Thirty dollars.”

 

Sam grits his teeth. It’s a low price, almost insultingly low, but he’s got no other options.

“Fine.” He holds out his hand. Elkins looks at him through beady eyes, but fishes out a grimy leather purse, pulling out a few coins and bills. He drops them into Sam’s waiting hand, and Sam thrusts the reins toward him, glad to be rid of the extra mouth to feed. 

“Much obliged.”

The old man shrugs and spits again, patting the horse’s neck. Sam nods in towards town.

“Any place I can get a meal? Maybe a few supplies?”

Elkins nods.

“Got a general store in town. Gruen’s.” He rubs his nose. “Local inn has decent food. Beds too, if you need ‘em.”

Sam’s shoulders sag in relief. What he wouldn’t give for a night in a decent bed. And the clouds have been building all afternoon. Might be he has to stop somewhere and take shelter from the rain that's sure to follow.

 

“Say—you ain’t from that camp, are ya?”

 

Sam looks up, raising a puzzled eyebrow.

“What camp?”

“You mean you didn’t hear?”

Elkins’ eyes spark with a look that Sam does not like. The man licks his lips.

“They’re laying down new railroad, just over that hill there,” he says, indicating the line of mountains to the east. “Someone came through and killed the foreman, and five other men, just yesterday.”

He pauses for a breath, watching eagerly for Sam’s reaction to this sensational news. Sam clears his throat, keeping his voice calm, even though his heart has begun to pound.

“Who did it?” He asks, gripping the money in his hand.

Elkins shakes his head.

“No idea. Folks talking about it being Clay Allison and his gang. I don’t believe it.” Elkins huffs pompously, drawing out a pipe from his pocket. “But ain’t nobody left alive who saw it, ‘cept them Chinese, but that don’t do no good.”

Sam grits his teeth, but decides to let the man’s words pass without comment.

“Who’d they kill?” He asks sharply. “Do they have names? Where are the bodies now?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The man holds out a hand. “Take it easy.”

He pauses to light his pipe, and Sam snarls at the man’s slowness.

“There must be someone investigating. Who? Someone in town?”

The man glares at him suspiciously, lowering his match.

“Why you care?”

Sam growls. If one of those men was his brother—

“Just tell me,” Sam snaps.

Elkins huffs.

“Lee Chambers,” he says. “Sheriff in town. They got the dead men there too. Said they were burying ‘em today.”

Sam is turned and off down the lane before the man has a chance to finish his sentence. Elkins calls after him, but Sam ignores him. He swings back on his horse, snapping the reins. She responds immediately, cantering away from Elkins’ farm.

As soon as they’re out on the main road, Sam digs his heels in, pushing his chestnut to a gallop.

He has to see those bodies. More murders, so fast after Butler—it couldn’t be a coincidence. Sam needs to talk to this Chambers, to find out what he knows. If he could give Sam a clue, even just a hint of who had done it—

With a jolt, Sam realizes his search might end in this town, might end with him finding his brother’s body in a pine box.

 

He bends down low, the chestnut’s hooves flying, past the sign for the town of Ridgeville.

 

x

 

Dean scowls, trying to press himself back up against the rock behind him.

There’s a slight ridge above his head, but it’s pitiful, and there’s a steady drip of rain on the brim of his hat. The outlaws have rigged up some sort of tent, using the outcropping of the rock, but Dean’ll be damned before he goes over and begs for a place.

He prefers to stay as far away from them as possible. Even if it means soaked trousers.

 

Another day of hard riding. They’d spent most of it in a tense silence. Dean’s starting to gather the three of them don’t talk much—and all his questions go unanswered. Sometimes they’ll talk casually about the people they’ve killed, robbed, and stolen from. Not a word goes by that Dean isn’t more and more convinced of their despicable nature—but Emmanuel’s treated him with a detached sort of indifference, as Dean were suddenly an extra thing to carry. He’s not sure why it bothers him so much.

He just wants this to be over. He misses his home. He misses his tiny little office. He misses Sam.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his chin down. The rain continues to hit him, getting steadily stronger. Ain’t long before his hat is soaked through and is drooping, water running under and dripping down the back of his neck. His teeth are chattering, and his feet have long since gone numb. Every raindrop chills him down to his bones.

Through the downpour, Dean sees a flash of movement. The outlaw dips out from under the tarp and is trudging over towards him. Dean folds his arms tighter, setting his jaw.

The outlaw thrusts something bitter and hot at him. Dean curls his lip, but takes the cup anyway. He greedily gulps it down, scalding his tongue. It chases away the chilling cold, if only for a moment, warming his belly.

The outlaw takes the empty cup.

“Plenty of room under the tarp,” he says.

Dean just sneers back at him.

 

The outlaw shrugs.

“Fine by me.”

 

He turns around and plods off back into the rain.

 

Dean lasts for maybe two minutes more.

 

“Easy, easy—you’re getting mud all over me,” Gabriel whines, shoving at Dean’s legs.

 

Dean drops down in the corner, taking off his hat. Water is dripping everywhere, from his hair, clumped in his eyelashes, running down the side of his face. He might as well have taken a bath, he’s so thoroughly soaked.

He looks up, and the outlaw is staring. Dean narrows his eyes, glaring right back.

“What?” He snaps.

 

The outlaw holds still for a moment, then looks away.

 

x

 

Castiel closes his eyes for a brief moment, ignoring the wet cold seeping through him. It ain’t smart, to invite him in like this. For a lot of reasons.

The sheriff, Winchester, looks around them, his eyes fixing on the rubber-coated canvas above him, and his eyes narrow.

“That’s a confederate blanket, ain’t it?”

His tone leaves no doubt as to which side he favored.

Castiel eyes him critically. He doesn’t look old enough to be a veteran, he must be one of those orphaned by the war, like Gabriel, like Castiel. A whole generation with no fathers, no money, no land, so they go out west and try to scrape out a living in a land where it doesn’t matter where your family is from. If Castiel hadn’t had…

He swallows, stopping that thought before it turns him down a dark path.

Gabriel asks the question for him.

“‘Spect it is,” he says, eyeing the sheriff. “Why? You got a problem with that?”

The sheriff stares back, glaring haughtily. Castiel’s lips settle into a thin line.

 

It’s clear what the man thinks of him. Of Gabriel, of Anna. He said as much when Castiel tried to pry some information from him—that they're nothing more than outlaws, no morals, killing for money. And when he heard the name Emmanuel—well. Castiel saw it on his face. The sheriff believes the stories, just like everyone else. Aloysius Hull, ha. Castiel has never set foot in the town Costella, wherever the hell that may be. More and more people he’s supposedly killed.

And now added on top of all of that, Winchester thinks they're a band of Johnny Rebs.

Just another reason to get rid of him. Castiel doesn’t think he can stand the look of judgement and hate the sheriff gives him every time their eyes meet.

 

They actually took the blanket off a group of men in Chimayo a few months back. The bastards had ransacked a nearby town, killing three just for the sport of it. The man recounted the story to Castiel with barely disguised glee, in a lazy southern drawl. Castiel doesn’t regret that man’s blood on his hands.

And yet the sheriff thinks _he_ represents the letter of the law.

Castiel scoffs and leans back. The hell with what he thinks.

 

Finally Winchester looks away, peeling off the rest of his wet clothes.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he says. “War’s over.”

“Really?” Gabriel mutters. “Hadn’t heard.”

Anna’s voice is muffled underneath her hat.

“Shut up, all of you.”

 

Gabriel for his part, does, with only a snide whisper or two sent her way first. Then he’s bunking down too, yanking a raggedy blanket over his head. After a moment, snores issue from underneath. Castiel shakes his head. He’ll never cease to be amazed at Gabriel’s ability to fall asleep within seconds.

Castiel envies him. He’s had too many sleepless nights.

 

He stands slowly, crouching to check the supports on the tarp. Should last them the night. Otherwise they'll be in for a rude awakening, if the thing collapses and dumps rainwater on them all.

The sheriff has removed everything except his shirt, which sticks to his wet skin, plastered close. Castiel pulls his eyes up to the man’s face, determined to keep himself under control.

“Here.”

He gestures towards the sheriff’s hands, who gratefully extends them. Castiel slips the key from his pocket, but instead of setting him loose, he swiftly undoes one of the cuffs and locks it onto the support beam next to the sheriff’s head. Winchester whips his eyes on Castiel, snarling.

“What the hell—”

Castiel backs out of the way of his other wildly swinging arm, unperturbed.

“If you think I’m letting you spend the night next to us untethered, you got another thing comin’,” he says mildly.

“What?” The sheriff says mockingly. “You don’t trust me?”

Castiel looks straight into his eyes.

“Not on your life.”

 

x

 

The wind howls, unearthly, like so many devils and demons. Rain slaps relentlessly down, turning the earth to mud, then muck.

Sam sloshes towards the inn, its yellow windows glowing in the darkness. He holds his hat to his head, fighting against the wind and swirling rain.

It’s a relief when he finally gets the inn’s door open, slamming it behind him. A few eyes glance up, then turn back to their games and their drinks. Only a kitchen girl, mopping up one of the tables, is still staring. She glares at him, eying the puddles dripping off Sam's coat with distaste.

Sam drops heavily into the nearest seat, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He’d only passed the first house into Ridgeville when the rain started pouring down, halting his plans. He’d tried the sheriff’s office, but it was shuttered on account of the sudden weather. Unfortunately, he just has to wait for the rain to stop.

Having nothing better to do, he drinks. The whiskey at this place ain’t as half as bad as some that Sam’s seen on the road, and it goes down smooth, enough that he expects he’ll sleep soundly tonight.

It’ll be a welcome relief. First few nights, out in the desert, he slept like the dead, not used to the roughness of the trail and the stamina to go all those miles. But slowly, Sam got used to it, and his sleepless nights had returned—his mind endlessly racing, thinking about his next move, where to go next, full of worry for his brother. Sam's starting to think he'll never see Dean again. 

He tips back the rest of his drink—third or fourth, he’s not entirely sure—and as he sets the glass down, he catches sight of a dark pair of eyes watching him.

She quickly looks away when she sees Sam’s gaze turn in her direction, but not quickly enough. Sam slowly pushes the glass away, scrutinizing her.

It’s unusual to see a woman alone, especially in Ridgeville. The town had sprung up as the transcontinental railroad was being built, with about hundred people living there, mostly male laborers. But that’s not the only unusual thing about her. She’s got riding boots on, ones that look like they’ve seen some hard miles, and there’s a pistol, gleaming in plain sight on her hip. Sam notices most of the other patrons are giving her a wide berth. Also, not typical. A woman who looks like that…

Sam goes back to his drink, pretending he hasn’t noticed the woman's eyes on him. But he keeps himself aware of her, noticing her lack of companions, the way she pays the bartender from a hidden money pouch from inside her coat. He doesn’t know why, but something about her sets his teeth on edge.

 

Sam signals the bartender for another drink, intending to get more information on who the woman is. The man comes over to pour him a new glass, and Sam leans forward, the question on his lips.

Just then, a swell of shouting comes from behind him. Sam whips around in time to see a man throwing his cards on the table, yanking up the man across from him by the front of his jacket, screamin’ something about a cheat. A brief scuffle ensues, where the crowd tries to pull the two men apart, the bartender hollering up a storm, yelling at the both of them to get out.

Sam rises from his seat, ready to intervene—but the argument is over almost as soon as it had started—the extra ace found, and the man thrown out the swinging doors.

By the time the excitement has settled, Sam finds the woman has vanished.

 

x

 

Lee Chambers is a graying, rugged looking man, who sizes him up the second he sets foot in the station. He cuts through all Sam’s bullshit and just says it flat.

“Let me guess,” he says, sitting up in his chair. “You heard about the murders at the railroad and decided to stop in and have a look.”

Sam closes his mouth, uncertain how to answer. Chambers raises an eyebrow.

“Either that, or you’re here to be part of the posse to hunt the sons of bitches down. Hate to break it to you, kid, but we ain’t got nobody to chase down.” He sniffs, crossing his arms. “Nobody real, anyway.”

Sam worries at his lip for a moment, then decides to tell the truth.

“I’m looking for my brother,” Sam says. “He was working up at the camp.”

Well, some truth.

Chambers looks at him for a moment, squinting curiously. Sam turns over his hat in his hands, holding his breath. Despite the lies, he can’t help the real worry bleeding through. 

Then Chambers sighs, and he quickly stands, beckoning Sam towards the back.

 

“You might wanna cover yer nose,” is all the warning he gets.

 

He’s seen dead bodies before. Had to, when he was training as an apprentice. But not like this. Even with Butler, he’d been spared the worst of it.

Sam coughs, pulling up his shirt to cover his mouth.

“Dear God,” he chokes out. Chambers’ eyes are hard.

“And the rest ain’t pretty," he says. "Whoever killed these men has no god. No mercy.”

He covers the body back up, much to Sam’s relief. Chambers glances at him.

“Your brother?”

Sam quickly shakes his head.

“N-no,” he stutters out. “No.”

Chambers shrugs.

“Well,” he says. “Five more to go.”

 

When he finally leaves the station, Sam presses himself up against the wall, taking huge steadying breaths. He’s feeling dizzy, lightheaded and faint.

 

But none of the bodies were Dean. Dean is still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny Reb - Nickname given to Confederate soldiers during the Civil War.


	5. The Two Hunters

 

The days are starting to blur together.

 

It’s a repetitive pattern. Get up at the crack of dawn, ride all day, stop occasionally, for water, for food, to piss. Dean’s getting tired of life on the road. His back aches, there are constant blisters on his palms, no proper meals—and the smell. It seems constant, unavoidable, and no amount of distance between himself and Gabriel seems to help. They resolutely avoid towns—Dean is starting to forget what it feels like to sleep in a bed. Right now, there’s something digging into his back, a rock or a stick or maybe it’s this damned uneven ground—but either way, he can’t get comfortable. At least, not on this scrap of cloth Gabriel said passed for a rollaway.

Dean flops onto his back, staring up at the starry expanse of night above him. Dinner was the last of cans of stew they’d bought off a woman in a house in the middle of the desert. The bruising on Dean's face had healed enough that she didn’t ask questions—but Dean suspects she wouldn't have anyway, 'specially after Emmanuel tipped a healthy number of coins into her palm. Now it twists queasily in Dean's stomach, threatening to make a reappearance.

Dean exhales, focusing on the scattered dots above him, trying to remember those old stories Bobby told him and Sam. Constellations and their myths, and all about how to read the stars, finding the direction of their steps using the sky above.

Dean tilts his head, calculating quickly. The dull scrublands to the left of their camp—that's the south—and north lay the distant hills of the High Plains. East would take them back towards Ridgeville, and northwest lay Canon City. Their eventual destination.

If these outlaws ever manage to deliver him.

 

Dean shifts, turning his eyes to a line of three bright stars, all in a line—Orion.

He huffs. Orion is mocking him.

 

“Can’t sleep, Sheriff?”

 

Dean frowns, propping himself up on one elbow. Emmanuel’s laid out on the log opposite him, arms crossed, dusty black hat tipped down over his face.

“Ground ain’t exactly comfortable.”

Dean sits all the way up, rubbing at his side.

“But when my back goes numb, at least I won’t feel the rocks.”

Emmanuel chuckles.

“Well, once you’re back safe and sound, the governor’ll set you up real nice," the outlaw says. "The best inn around.”

“Be nice to sleep in a bed now,” Dean mutters.

Emmanuel peeks an eye open.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he says. “Nothing but miners and shanty towns. Where we gonna find a decent bed?”

Dean glares.

“You tell me.”

Emmanuel closes his eyes again.

“Anywhere’s a decent bed if you’re tired enough,” he says lazily.

Dean looks at him for a moment. He doesn’t want to talk to this outlaw, he doesn’t want to know anything about him. Because if Dean does start talkin' to him, he might start understandin’ him. And that sounds like a dangerous prospect.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re tired," Dean says anyway.

 

That gets a reaction. One hand tips back the hat, Emmanuel’s piercing blue eyes glinting in the dark.

“How so?”

Dean shrugs.

“You’re up, too.”

“Keeping watch,” Emmanuel replies.

“Don’t look like it.”

Emmanuel looks at Dean for a moment, then settles back again, his eyes cast back up to the heavens.

“Well. You know.”

He exhales, his breath curling in icy spirals into the black night.

“Sometimes your mind won’t let you sleep.” Those eyes find Dean’s again. “You’re a lawman. M'sure you’ve seen your fair share of things you didn’t want to.”

Emmanuel can’t know how close to home he’s hit, but Dean doesn’t react. He’s had too many years of practice of blocking out the memories of that night—the fire, Sam crying, his father’s terrified face.

 

But Emmanuel. What could he have to forget?

 

Dean frowns, squinting at him.

“You weren’t in the war, were you?”

He looks young, but then again, Dean has no idea how old Emmanuel is. He could be ten years Dean’s senior for all Dean knows.

But there's no question that life on the road has taken its toll, stripped away any last trace that youth might have claimed of Emmanuel. He's not old, he's just…hardened.

“Nah.” Emmanuel scratches a hand through the darkening stubble on his jaw. “Wasn’t barely a kid.”

Oh. That puts him somewhere close to Dean’s age.

“Me too," Dean mutters absently.

Emmanuel merely raises an eyebrow in reply, before leaning back again, tucking his arms in close to fight off the night’s chill.

Dean sits up fully, groping at the pack somewhere to his right, trying to find his canteen. He takes a long drink to soothe his suddenly-dry throat, wiping his lips as he lowers the metal flask. Emmanuel hasn’t moved.

 

“So.”

 

Dean tosses the canteen away.

“How does someone become a wanted outlaw, then?”

 

He’s heard of veterans doing it—coming back from the war with nothing to shoot, so they started seeking their thrills elsewhere. Or with a ruined South, some Confederates had no choice but to pack up and go West, and take their chances wherever they might find them. Even if it did include breaking the law.

But since Emmanuel ain’t no veteran—how the hell did he end up like this?

Emmanuel chuckles, a dark rich sound, like whiskey and honey.

“How does one become a sheriff?” He asks, in the same lilting tone.

Dean shifts, scowling a little.

“Fine, I get it. Not sharing time.”

Emmanuel smirks.

“You started it.”

 

Dean huffs and turns over, away from the warmth of the fire and the outlaw’s judgmental eyes. Emmanuel doesn’t try to engage him in conversation again, and somewhere between breaths, Dean slips off to sleep.

 

x

 

Four hours after leaving Ridgeville, he finally gets his first clue.

 

Sam had left as soon as he was restocked and his solid little chestnut was rested—she greeted him on his return from the sheriff’s station, eyes bright, pawing at the ground.

Without any other choice, he took the North Fork, passed Goose Creek, and is now out on the path towards Cicero. He’d seen a small little farmstead on the side, and decided to stop. He’d shown the woman there the picture of his brother, and she had nodded, saying she had seen him not two days ago. Traveling with three others, and that they were very polite, if a little shabby. Two men, one woman, with red hair. She didn’t mention or seem to notice that Dean was traveling with them against his will.

Soon as Sam reaches Cicero, he stops in at a telegram station and sends a wire to Pam.

She must be furious with him. Sam left hastily, at the crack of dawn, and hadn’t contacted anyone since. He vaguely wonders how their town is getting along with both the sheriff and their doctor gone. Just fine, he supposes.

Sam doesn’t know where he’ll be next, so she can’t wire him back, but he writes that he promises to contact soon with updates.

 

Sam leaves the telegram station, a sour taste in his mouth. It’s been almost a week. If he hasn’t found Dean by now, what are the chances he ever will? 

He stops in nearly every shop and parlor, asking after his brother. Nobody appears to have seen him. Whoever took Dean is being very careful, to cover their tracks, to not let anyone catch their names, and to not draw any attention to themselves. Makes sense they would avoid the towns. But Sam can see the traces, the shadows they've left, and he seizes desperately at even the slightest clues. Sam asks whether any outlaws, rustlers, or bandits have been spotted in the area lately. If there have been any crimes or robberies. Where an outlaw might go after their town. How far to the county seat.

His voice is hoarse by dusk, and unfortunately with nothing to show for it. Judging by the curt and hostile answers Sam got to his questions, he’s sure half the town’ll be glad to see the back of him.

A dead end. Dean's trail had been thin at best, and now it's damn near gone.

 

Sam stops in at a small general store, buying a few supplies to restock before he heads out in the morning, whether onward or back for home—he hasn't decided yet. Dried jerky, a rare find of canned peaches, powder for his gun. He ain't had to use it yet, but there's no shame in being careful.

Sam heads off back down the rough main street, the sunset painting the dirt a bloody red. He turns down a side alley that he discovered leads to the hotel, taking relief in the blissful shade.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t hear the soft sound of footsteps behind him.

 

Sam keeps walking, neither speeding or slowing down. The sound behind him continues. And now a soft murmur of voices.

 

A cold sweat breaks out over him, his pulse quickening. Sam ain’t no fool—he knows better than to get caught alone in an alley in an unfamiliar town. Stupid, _stupid—_ if Dean knew, Bobby even—

_I ain’t taught you nothin’, kid?_

He spares the briefest of glances over his shoulder, and sees three men, following him.

Sam tenses, looking forward again. Could be they're just sheltering from the oppressive heat too.

"Hey, you."

 

Sam halts. Another man has appeared at the opposite end of the alley.

The men behind him quickly catch up, forming a circle around him.

"New in town, huh, feller?" One says.

Sam backs away slightly, keeping his distance.

"Just passing through," he says firmly. 

"Interesting."

The one closest to him steps right up, then seems to realize the stark difference in their heights. He backs up, squinting at him.

"See, we don't take kindly to all the questions you been asking."

Sam freezes.

"What?"

The second man turns his head, spitting in the dirt.

"Folks like you could make trouble," he says in a low growl.

"I don't want any trouble," Sam says quickly. The first man shrugs.

"Shame," he says.

Sam’s hand drops to his belt, curling around the grip of his gun—but a half second of hesitation stays his hand.

That half second is enough.

 

A body slams into his back and Sam finds himself shoved up against a wall—the gun twisted out of his grip and thrown to the dirt. Hands grab his arms and he’s wheeled around, glimpsing only dark eyes and a crooked grin before pain rips up his jaw—and he falls back, smarting from the punch.

“Careful, now,” a voice says.

“Aw,” comes another to his right, its owner swamped in shadow. “We’re allowed to have a little fun.”

One reaches for Sam again, but this time, he’s ready. He grabs the man’s arm and uses his height to his advantage, pulling on him with all his strength, sending the man sprawling. Sam turns, lifting his hands—but by that point, they’ve descended on him like flies.

There’s just too many. And it’s been years since Sam’s wrestled with Dean—their childish matches their father always seemed to encourage—and he’s quickly overpowered and shoved to his knees, arms held behind him.

Sam growls in defiance, even as blood steadily drips from his nose, spattering on the dirt below him.

“I don’t have any money." He drags his eyes up, sneering at the man in front of him. “You’re wasting your time.”

The man grins.

“That’s what you think, pal.”

 

He hits Sam again, and this time, Sam tastes it in his mouth, the salt-tang of blood staining his throat. He spits, feeling that icy flame of rage building slowly in his gut, straining through him, threatening to break. He surges forward against the arms holding him back, snarling.

He’s slammed to the floor, his head hitting the hard earth and dazing him—then is pulled roughly back by the shoulder, an arm wrapping around his throat.

Sam struggles, grabbing at the man holding him, kicking out. He grips at the man’s wrists, but it’s no use. The man pulls tighter, tighter—Sam can feel the air leaving his lungs, every last breath squeezed from his body, vision spotting out.

 

_Crack._

 

The man in front of Sam drops, a small circle of red bleeding from his temple—he collapses to the ground and is still. The arm around his throat loosens—and the men around him start shouting, roughly thrown into chaos.

Sam gasps for air, still struggling against the crushing grip on his throat. As he pushes against his attacker, he lifts his head, and sees a figure silhouetted by the harsh sunlight.

He catches a flash of dark eyes under a dark hat—as one of the men charges, striking the woman across the face. She stumbles back briefly from the hit, then whirls around, snarling.

 

It's her. From the bar, in Ridgeville. Despite the haze of pain and fear in his mind, Sam is certain. Hers isn’t a face he could easily forget.

The woman darts forward, grabbing one of Sam's attackers by the shirt and sends a shot through his shoulder. He drops with a cry of agony, and the woman shoves him to the side, her back now to Sam. The arms holding Sam vanish, and he drops to his hands and knees, coughing. The one who was holding him is advancing on the woman, the scent of his sweat and raw fear sour in the air. Sam shoves himself up—still reeling slightly, and yanks the man back, connecting his fist with his jaw.

The impact spins the man around to face the woman, who deftly aims and puts a bullet through his throat.

 

He falls to the side with a sickly _thud._ Sam is left opposite the woman, both of them breathing heavily. Her hair is tangled and wild, a deep dark brown that mirrors her merciless eyes.

Sam stares at her, panting.

“Who the hell are you?” He asks.

She holsters her pistol, lips curling into a devilish smile.

“I’m the girl that just saved your ass.”

 

x

 

"Ruby," Sam repeats. "That's your name?"

The woman smiles at him, leaning back against the door. Sam narrows his eyes, shrewdly looking her over.

After the shootout, they beat a hasty retreat from the alley. The men were definitely no longer a problem, but there was no way the commotion hadn’t been heard by someone nearby. Sam led and the women followed—and somehow they managed to get back to the inn without raising suspicion. In the high of adrenaline and the escape, Sam didn’t question it—but now, as he looks up at this stranger, blocking the only exit, he's starting to wonder if he made a mistake.

Sam shakes his head, bringing the damp rag up to his face again. He inspects the damage in a small looking glass that’s sitting on the desk. His nose has stopped bleeding, but there’s a large bruise purpling under his left eye. 

The girl tilts her head, looking at him.

"And you're Sam Winchester."

Sam looks up sharply.

"How do you know that?"

She raises an eyebrow.

"You've been up and down every town the last twenty miles telling folks your name." She shrugs. "People listen. People talk."

Sam breathes in, slowly dabbing at his nose again. He's really starting to wonder what he's gotten himself into.

"Winchester," Ruby says musingly. "Like the gun."

Sam huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Haven't heard that one before.”

He lowers the rag, letting it dangle loosely between his fingers. Ruby’s dark eyes watch him, unreadable.

 

After a moment, she starts tugging at the sleeves of her coat, pulling it from her shoulders. She drapes it carelessly over the back of a chair, looking around.

“You got any liquor ‘round here? Or a cigarette?”

Mutely, Sam shakes his head. She sighs, dropping back into the chair.

“Figures.”

Ruby starts tapping her fingers on the arms of the chair, looking bored. Sam clears his throat.

“You were at that inn. In Ridgeville," he says. "I saw you.”

 

Ruby snorts slightly under breath.

“You just noticed? I’ve been tracking you for days.”

Sam eyes her. "Why?”

Ruby leans back, lips curving into a smile.

“I’m interested in you,” she says.

Sam grits his teeth, hissing.

“I’ll try again. Why?”

Ruby pauses, dragging her eyes up his body.

“You have to ask?” She says with a smirk.

Sam clenches his jaw, looking away.

“Figures,” he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear.

But Ruby’s smile only grows.

 

“You’ve been attracting a lot of attention, Sam,” she says. "I heard the whispers. And I wanted to see what the fuss was about.”

“And those men?” Sam asks. “Is that what they were doing, too?”

Ruby doesn’t answer, merely tilts her head.

“You ask a lot of questions, Sam."

“Maybe because I’m not getting answers,” Sam says scathingly. “You wanna drop the act and tell me what’s going on?”

Ruby sighs, leaning back and propping her boots up. The long silver gun on her hip gleams, flashing in the light. Out of reach for now, but Sam still remembers what it looked like when it put that bullet through the man’s throat.

 

“Like I said before,” Ruby says. “Attention. People get jumpy. Rumors start to fly. People ain’t takin’ too kindly to the questions bein’ asked, especially if it’s a stranger who shows up and starts askin’ em. _Especially_ when it concerns one of the most notorious outlaws in Colorado.”

Sam frowns. Notorious outlaw? What the hell is she talking about?

“Then why’d you help me?” He asks.

“Because.”

 

Ruby smiles.

“I’m tracking Emmanuel, too.”

 

x

 

Sam stares at her.

“Bullshit.”

 

Ruby raises an eyebrow.

“What?” She says challengingly. “You don’t think I can?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s—” Sam cuts off, shaking his head. “I’m not...Emmanuel isn’t the man I’m tracking. It can’t be.”

“Why not?” Ruby asks, crossing her arms.

“Because I’m following the man who kidnapped my brother,” Sam says. “And whoever took my brother is leaving a _trail_. No one’s been able to track Emmanuel before. Ever.”

Of all the possibilities, of who might have taken Dean, Emmanuel had never crossed Sam’s mind. _Emmanuel…_

“Not all people out here are the same, Sam,” Ruby says, reaching for her coat. “Not all of us want the same thing.”

She reaches into the pocket of her coat, and Sam steps back, instantly wary.

Ruby glances at him, rolling her eyes.

“Easy, cowboy.”

 

She rummages around for a second before leaning towards him, holding out a scrap of paper.

“This match one of your descriptions?” She asks, lifting an eyebrow.

 

Sam glares at her for a moment, but takes the paper. He quickly unfolds it, staring at the crude sketch.

A drawing of a woman, with a thin, pointed face, and eyes lit with fire. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d swear the portrait was Ruby’s—but the poster claims the wanted girl’s hair as red, her age barely twenty. And it matches the accounts Sam’s heard from his questioning on the trail—descriptions of a young woman, one of Emmanuel’s two companions.

Sam unfolds the bottom of the page, two words printed in dark bold.

_Extremely dangerous._

 

He slowly hands it back without a word. Ruby takes it, tucking it into her pocket.

“Her name’s Anna,” she says matter-of-factly. “She’s one of Emmanuel’s gang. Seems to think the railroad had her father killed, and turned outlaw ‘cause of that.”

Sam looks up, tilting his head.

“Did they?” He asks.

Ruby shrugs. “Does it matter?”

 

Sam purses his lips. He’s liking his woman less and less. But the lure of her words—whether they’re lies or truth—has him staying in his seat. He can’t risk leaving now, not if she has a way to find Dean.

Ruby leans back.

“Point is, she joined up with Emmanuel, who has a habit of putting railroads outta business.” She eyes him shrewdly. “You startin’ to see a pattern?”

Sam chews at his lip.

“And you think you’ll be able to find him?”

Ruby sighs, taking her dark hat from her head.

 

“I’ve been tracking him for a while,” she says. “But he’s slippery. I lost the trail for a few days, and I only picked it back up again when—”

 

“When what?” Sam mutters. Ruby turns those piercing eyes on him.

“When you started poking around.”

Sam stares back, unwilling to blink. Ruby drags her fingers along the edge of her hat, a musing look on her face.

“For whatever reason Emmanuel took your brother…” She pauses. “It was a stroke of luck. It’s only going to make him that much easier to find.”

“Why are _you_ following him?” Sam asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Of course I’d like to say because he needs to be stopped,” Ruby says. “But the $25,000 on his head don’t hurt neither.”

Sam scoffs under his breath. Bounty hunter. He knew it.

“And I’ve heard the stories,” Ruby continues. “That he's been in over a hundred gunfights, that he's escaped death more than once…” She trails off, glancing at Sam. “I don't buy it.”

“Congratulations,” Sam says, throwing the rag aside. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

Ruby raises one eyebrow.

“Don’t you? We have the same goal.” She shrugs. “Figure we’ll do better if we work together.”

Sam pauses at that, staring. Ruby’s mouth curves into a smile.

“That’s right, Sam,” she says softly. “I can help you. If you help me.”

Sam stands, turning away from her. Working with a bounty hunter...it's a bad idea, to be sure. Would bring him nothing but trouble.

“And why would I help you?” Sam throws over his shoulder, just to buy himself some time to think. “I don’t trust you—I don’t know the first thing about you. You just murdered three people in front of me.”

“To save your life,” Ruby replies, a bite to her tone. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I just don’t understand why you want to help me,” Sam says stubbornly.

He’s not sure why he’s so resistant to what she’s offering. Those men had come after him with the intent to kill, simply because he was going around and asking questions. It’d be useful to have someone at his side.

 

Ruby stares at him, motionless for a long moment. Then she leans back, draping her arm back over the seat behind her.

“Let’s just say...we’d make a good team.” Ruby inclines her head. “You found Emmanuel’s path and managed to stick with him. Lotta men wouldn't be able to do what you did.”

“Yeah, well.” Sam tosses the rag in his hands aside. “I’m at a dead end now. So lot of good it did me.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Sam.”

 

Ruby stands, a slow smile starting to form.

“I’m proposing an alliance,” she says. “We’re looking for the same man. Only makes sense for us to work together.” She crosses her arms. “And I’m damn good at what I do. But it ain’t worth shit if no one will give me the time of day, simply because I’m me.”

 

Sam looks at her carefully. She’s not wrong. He remembers his own confusion and distrust, seeing a woman alone on the trail. But Ruby has certainly proved herself capable, and she would be a reliable asset. If they’re both looking for Emmanuel, it only makes sense for them to work together. And she saved his life. He owes her.

He’s not sure he can trust her, but...he owes her. A try, at least.

 

“Look,” Ruby says. “I can't tell you how many times that man has slipped through my fingers because some jackass thought I wasn't capable. I need you.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. Ruby purses her lips.

“You can get in places I can’t. You’ll get the answers I can’t. One less barrier for me, an extra set of eyes for you.”

Sam bites his lip. Ruby softens slightly, her voice lowering.

“You’re new to this, Sam,” she continues. “I can tell. But I can help you. I’ll tell you the questions, and all you have to do is ask.”

She extends her hand to shake. Sam looks down, but makes no move to take it.

“Do what I say,” Ruby murmurs. “And we’ll find your brother. I promise you.”

 

Sam breathes out.

He takes her hand.

 

“Deal.”

 

x

 

Ruby raps on the shuttered window, a quick pattern of two and three. She waits a moment and it’s drawn back, two suspicious eyes squinting out at her.

“Ruby.”

Ruby tips her hat, smiling.

“Evenin’, Bela.”

Bela holds out a hand. Ruby sighs.

“All business, then?”

Bela just purses her lips. Ruby takes a small pouch from within her coat, and begins pulling out bills. Bela watches shrewdly, counting every single one.

“How’d those fellas work out for you?” She asks, sounding bored.

“Just fine. Did exactly as they were told.”

“Damaged?”

Ruby’s hand pauses. “Maybe a little.”

Bela snatches up the bills already on the sill.

“That’ll be extra," she says sharply.

“It always is,” Ruby mutters, rolling her eyes.

She shells out the extra, wincing at the large sum. Boss ain’t going to be too happy with her, but he’ll just have to deal with it.

Bela squints at her.

“You find your boy?” She asks.

“Mmhmm.” Ruby smirks. “Even better than we hoped.”

She tucks her money back into her pocket.

 

“Dumb, trusting, and susceptible to pretty women.”


	6. The Massacre

Emmanuel’s disappeared.

 

Dean chews at his fingernails, watching the pair of them squabble. They’d woken up this morning to an empty bedroll and a missing horse, the last embers of their fire just burning out. Gabriel had started off arguing that they needed to set out immediately to find him, with Anna arguing back that they should stay put, so that Emmanuel will be able to find _them_ when he comes back. They’ve somehow circled around and now are arguing the opposite, as Dean throws pebbles into the nearby lake.

When the four of them pulled up at the edge of the water last night, Dean thought they were only going to replenish their supply of water and move on. The outlaws did indeed fill up their water skins, quickly loading them away as their horses made their way towards the shore, greedily gulping up water. But additionally, they were finally able to clean off the dirt and stink from the road. All three of them had the same abashed red-faced expression when Anna was the first of them to rid her clothes, diving into the lake headfirst. Dean refused to go in, only entering the lake once he was sure they had gone to sleep.

But somewhere between now and Dean returning to his bedroll, washed but shivering, Emmanuel had stolen away.

 

Now it’s well past noon, and they’ve gotten no closer to deciding on a plan then when they woke this morning. Dean takes his hat off, holding it loosely as he drags one hand through his hair and over his neck. His nape is raw and hot from the sun, tingling as he runs his fingers over the skin. His wrists have healed, but he keeps the linen in place to prevent the manacles from opening the wounds again.

 

At the sound of hooves, Dean lifts his head.

 

Emmanuel is riding directly toward them, unmistakable, even from this distance. Gabriel and Anna watch his approach silently, Anna’s hands clenched into fists.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” She says, the second he gets off his horse.

 

Emmanuel turns, and Dean draws in a sharp breath.

 

To say he’s a little worse for the wear would be an understatement. His clothes are disheveled, his lip split, his nose bloody.

Gabriel curses, and Anna stares, going pale.

“You alright?”

“What happened?”

Emmanuel looks down, clenching and opening one hand.

“Raphael,” he says, by way of explanation. “I took care of him.”

 

Gabriel looks cautiously at Anna, then back to Emmanuel, eyes concerned. Anna's face slowly grows livid.

“You said you didn’t know where he was,” she says through gritted teeth. “You said he was impossible to find.”

“Well, I lied.”

 

Emmanuel walks forward, wiping his nose with the back of one hand.

“But he is who you say he is,” he says lowly. “And he’s no longer a threat.”

 

Dean follows the conversation with increasing alarm. Who is Raphael? Another outlaw? Did Emmanuel _murder_ —

 

“You son of a bitch,” Anna says, cutting into Emmanuel’s path. Emmanuel steps back, his jaw set.

“You know I wanted him, you know I _deserve_ —”

“I did it to protect you,” Emmanuel grits back.

“Well, fucking thank you,” Anna spits.

 

She turns on her heel and stalks off down the water’s edge, disappearing among the sparse trees at the base of the mountain. Gabriel looks at Emmanuel sideways, then coughs.

“She’ll be back.” He glances away. “I’ll go get, uh—bandages.”

 

He shuffles off, but Emmanuel stays, frozen. He hasn’t moved since Anna stormed off. He’s staring blankly at the ground before him, his lip swelling with blood.

Then he speaks, so softly Dean almost didn’t hear him.

“I just wanted to do the right thing,” he whispers.

 

Dean looks at him sharply. Emmanuel snaps out of it, ignoring Dean as he turns towards the water, kneeling at its edge. He cups his hands in the water, bringing it to his face.

 

x 

 

The water feels like Heaven. Castiel's ear is ringing, his lip throbbing, and that’s just his face. Raphael gave him a hell of a fight, after his questions went south. He hadn’t wanted to kill the man, but when Raphael pulled a Smith & Wesson from his pocket, Castiel had no choice but to act accordingly.

And then, after…

He shakes his head. He had been reckless. He had been stupid.

 

He had been goddamn lucky.

 

 

Castiel really thought Anna would be relieved. But he was still learning her, her personality, her moods—they’d really only been riding together a few short months. Hell—Raphael was part of the reason Anna joined up with them in the first place. Castiel sighs, dropping his head.

He should have known better.

 

Castiel carefully washes the blood from his face, the back of his neck, hair for good measure—and he’s wet and dripping by the time he finishes, lifting his head. He blinks water out of his eyes, to find the sheriff staring at him, those green eyes wide and fathomless.

It didn’t mean anything. Lots of people had green eyes. The fact that this sheriff—with his snarky words and sharp tongue—had eyes that reminded Castiel of the first hint of spring didn’t mean anything.

He wordlessly accepts a rag from Gabriel, staring right back. No doubt Winchester is forming all sorts of theories about who Raphael is and just exactly what Castiel did to him. He grinds his teeth. He shouldn’t care about what the sheriff thinks of him. He shouldn’t.

 

He binds up his split knuckles, his eyes on Winchester the entire time. There’s a strange challenge in his eyes, one that Castiel isn’t likely to back down from easy.

“Alright, Sheriff,” he mutters. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

 

x

 

Anna comes back a little after sundown. Gabriel opens his mouth, perhaps to tease her about being afraid of the dark—but one look at her face shuts him up.

 

Dinner is some kind of stew with chunks of withered meat and beans. Dean turns his head and refuses to touch it. His stomach has been roiling ever since Emmanuel returned, stinking of sweat and blood.

He retreats to his bedroll and curls up on the hard rock, shivering.

He’s absolutely miserable.

 

The low murmur of voices echo from behind him, but Dean is barely listening. He's long stopped trying to eavesdrop. He just doesn’t care anymore. One of two things will happen—they'll take him up to the county seat, or they’ll decide Dean isn’t worth the trouble and just kill him. Dean has realized what happens in the interim isn’t really much up to him.

 

“It was foolish and rash. I don’t know what you’re planning now…”

“Don’t know what you think he'll do…”

“Sure to be on our trail…”

“Not again. No way in hell.”

 

  
There’s a brief lull, then the arguing starts again—this time about who’s taking the first watch.

Dean sighs. At least now they’ll stop talking and it’ll be quiet.

Dean rolls over on his side and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping with enough willpower, it'll start to feel like he’s sleeping on a featherbed.

 

 

“Hey, Sheriff.”

 

 

No such luck.

 

 

“This isn’t become a habit with you, is it?” Dean grunts out. “I need to sleep.”

“I been watching you thirty minutes and you been fidgeting that whole time. You ain’t sleeping anymore than I am.”

 

Dean narrows his eyes. The outlaw’s been watching him this whole time?

 

He glances over his shoulder at Emmanuel, then turns his back again, his voice flat.

“I got nothing to say to you.”

“Oh, really.”

There’s a hint of humor in Emmanuel's voice.

“And why’s that?”

“You murder people,” Dean says.

“Only people that deserve it,” the outlaw says calmly.

 

Dean sits up.

“So that thief, who ain’t done nothing but take some money. He deserved it?”

“Yes,” Emmanuel says. Then he looks at Dean, tilting his head curiously.

“You must have been chasing him for a reason, too,” he says. “Why?”

Dean huffs, picking at his fingers. He’s not sure why he should bother to tell him, but he does it anyway.

“Stole from our barkeep,” he says. “She’s half-blind and harmless. And he robbed her of barely a hundred dollars.”

“Mm.” Emmanuel raises an eyebrow. “So not the best of men.”

“And what about this Raphael?” Dean says scathingly. “Sure you had a real good reason to kill him, too.”

“Matter of fact, I did." Emmanuel's lips twist. "And?” 

 

Dean looks at him, and sees truth in every line of the outlaw's face. Emmanuel really believes what he’s saying.

“I can’t wait to put a bullet in your back,” Dean mutters.

Emmanuel tips up his hat.

“Why not put it in my front?" He asks. "I’m sure that’ll work just as well.”

Dean scoffs.

“You’re a snake.”

Emmanuel tilts his head.

“Destined to bite you, I should think.”

 

Dean grinds his teeth, but swallows the barbs he longs to throw at the outlaw. He just wants Emmanuel to leave him alone.

But Emmanuel continues to stare at him, those eyes unblinkingly drinking Dean in, picking him apart, as if to tear away his secrets until he’s left naked before him. Dean shivers.

“What?” He snaps eventually. The outlaw shrugs.

“You’re awful keen to kill me, for a man who supposedly condemns violence,” Emmanuel says, a sly look on his face.

“And you’re quick to try and decipher me when you’ve made it clear how you feel about men like me,” Dean sneers back.

The outlaw leans forward, his fingers lacing together.

“Just trying to make you out,” he says, his eyes glittering in the firelight.

Dean looks at him uneasily. Open animosity was one thing, but this intense scrutiny? It’s getting under his skin more than anything else the outlaw has done so far.

What is Emmanuel’s game?

“No need to guess with you,” Dean says snidely. “I know your type.”

Emmanuel seems unperturbed.

“Oh?” He tilts his head at a slight angle, peering at Dean. “And what is my type?”

“Read all about you,” Dean mutters. “You kill for sport. You care nothing for the law, for honor.”

Dean spits in the dirt at his feet.

“You’re the worst kind of man," he sneers.

 

Emmanuel is very still.

“You haven’t met many outlaws, have you Sheriff?” He says quietly.

Dean purses his lips, but doesn't answer.

 

Emmanuel stands, shucking his jacket. Dean tracks him with his eyes, as the outlaw begins folding back his sleeves, his face thrown into shadow.

“Tell me,” comes his voice eventually. “You believe the rest of the rumors too?”

Dean frowns. Emmanuel continues, squatting down and picking up a stick, poking at the coals of the fire.

“That I’ve killed over a thousand men?” He chuckles slightly under his breath. “Men have seen me gunned down, just to get back up again, in front of their own two eyes…” He looks up, icy stare locking onto Dean’s. “Surely you’re more sensible than that.”

Dean crosses his arms.

“Course I don’t believe that,” he says. “It ain’t possible.”

“And yet you’re so ready to believe everything else,” Emmanuel says idly.

Dean opens his mouth hotly, and finds he has no argument. It _is_ true the rags embellish the stories to get more readers, everyone knows that. He can’t believe everything he’s heard about the man currently sitting in front of him. But Dean trusts his gut. The second he saw Emmanuel, Dean knew he was dangerous. And he tries to keep dangerous people as far away from him as possible.

His instincts have never been wrong before.

 

x

 

Castiel isn’t sure why he’s still talking to him. They’re going to cut the sheriff loose in maybe a day or two, soon as they make it to Canon City. And here he is, trying to pick the thorny bastard apart. Castiel shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t give a damn.

“I ‘spect you’ve had a run-in with a few of us before,” Castiel continues, watching the sheriff carefully. “Only reason for you to have such a hatred. Somebody wronged you.”

Winchester’s mouth tightens. Castiel smirks. He was right.

“Could that be the reason for the shiny star?” He pulls it from his pocket, turning over the battered metal. “And if you catch bad men like me, that’ll make it all better?”

The sheriff is glaring at him, eyes furious.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he spits.

“Then tell me, Sheriff.” Castiel leans forward. “Why’d you join up? Because you wanted to help people? How many did you help in that backwater town of yours?”

The sheriff is silent, the muscles in his jaw working.

“Look,” Castiel says, through his teeth. “The people I kill deserve their vengeance. The law ain’t doing the job, and God sure as hell isn’t, either. You think those fancy lawmen want the word to get out that an outlaw’s been doin’ it for them?”

“You’re a real hero,” the sheriff sneers.

Castiel sets his lips in a thin line. The man is endlessly infuriating.

There's a long stretch of silence, where neither one of them is willing to cede ground. But just when Castiel is ready to abandon his interrogation, to turn and go back to his pitiful attempt at sleep, the sheriff speaks.

“They took my home,” Winchester whispers. “My family. Everything.”

 

There’s such raw emotion in his voice that Castiel’s carefully constructed facade slips, just for a moment. He’s been playing the role for so long, of the cold, aloof, outlaw—and confronted with Winchester's initial derision, Castiel had no trouble maintaining the charade. But this honesty unsettles him, and makes Castiel realize that perhaps he had the sheriff pegged wrong.

Perhaps neither of them are what they’ve been pretending to be.

 

Then the moment's gone, and Winchester is turning away angrily, closing those green eyes.

“If you’ve never had a home, I suppose you can’t relate,” he mutters.

Castiel grips the star in his hand.

“I had a home once,” he finds himself saying.

 

Winchester is quiet. Then he turns, meeting Castiel’s gaze.

“What happened?” He whispers.

 

Emmanuel, lying dead in the street.

“Long story,” Castiel mutters.

 

x

 

Sam pulls the back door of the inn shut and walks out onto the street, looking at the bare, dusty road before him. It’s early enough that there aren’t too many people out, but for some reason, it just makes Sam even more anxious. That what he’s about to do is wrong, illicit somehow.

He turns his head at the sound of hooves. Ruby trots up on a sturdy roan, a smile on her face.

“Ready?” She asks. Sam just grits his teeth.

He untethers his chesnut from her post and hoists himself up into the saddle. Ruby starts off before he’s settled, at a walk towards the north road. Sam pulls the reins up into his hands, clucking his tongue.

 

They fall into a even pace, not saying much. The horses’ll tire before they reach Alamosa, the next large city, some fifty miles away—it’ll take them a day and a half at least. Sam is itching to get there. Ruby had been cagey with her information, merely mentioning a contact she had in the city, but hadn’t let slip his name or where exactly he lived. Smart of her. Sam probably would have struck out on his own if she had told him.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Ruby. She’s brash, and unafraid, and her tongue is the sharpest Sam’s known in awhile. And he’s not stupid enough to deny his attraction to her. Ever since he and Dean had moved to Creede, Sam's interactions with women had dwindled to solely medical in nature. That first night, when Ruby had moved about in his room, the both of them high off the adrenaline and the rush of the escape, Sam had rarely felt such an intense desire to touch. But he’d pushed it to the back of his mind, refusing to entertain the notion. She's going to help him find his brother. That's all.

And Sam trusts her about as far as he can throw her. He saw the way Ruby was treated in that bar, and the skill with which she took out the men who attacked him. Ruby has her own secrets.

 

“You’re awful quiet over there.”

Sam glances over. Ruby is looking at him, a small smile on her face.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Sam purses his lips, looking forward.

“Nothing.”

“Well, come on now. That won’t do.”

Ruby twists the reins in her hands, guiding her horse around a ditch in the trail.

“We got a long journey ahead of us,” she says. “Time to get to know each other a little better.”

Sam clenches his jaw.

“I’m looking for my brother,” he says curtly. “That’s all you really need to know.”

“It’s almost like you don’t trust me,” Ruby retorts.

She glances over at Sam, who fails to answer. She laughs, leaning back in the saddle.

“I don’t blame you for that. Why would you? A smart decision, on your part.” She smiles, dark eyes glittering.

Sam stares straight forward, and doesn't answer. He lets the moments pass by, focusing instead on the monotonous shifting of the horse underneath him, the bright sun blending everything together, making the desert look washed out and hazy.

“Lived in Creede for a few years,” he says finally. “Trained as a doctor.”

“Doctor, huh? That’s useful.” Ruby adjusts her gloves. “Where before that?”

“I was born in Lawrence.”

“La—lawrence?”

For the first time, Ruby seems genuinely surprised. She turns in her seat, her eyebrows raised.

“Kansas?” She asks.

“Yes,” Sam says, his jaw tight.

Ruby lets out a low whistle.

“Damn.”

She looks at him sideways.

“And you were...you were there? When—”

Sam jerks his head in a nod. She closes her mouth, thinking.

“I heard about it, but I never met…”

Ruby stops.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and it actually seems sincere.

Sam turns his head away.

“It was a long time ago.”

 

 

Sam hasn’t thought of Lawrence in years.

 

He remembers branding the cattle. The stink of the animals, the hiss of flesh, the sharp raw smell of red-hot iron.

Papa would light the fire, right outside the corral, and the field hands would be in charge of roping the steer, pulling the calves and smaller ones to the side, throwing ‘em down, keeping them in place while Papa grabbed the iron, and then—

The two of them were too little to help, Papa said. All they could do was watch. Sam did, with a kind of sick fascination, his heart in his mouth. Dean would shout and holler, whooping if one of the enraged steer got loose and decided to charge. One year, a ranchhand near got his head kicked off after he tumbled from his horse, and Papa cussed him out something foul, throwing him out for good measure. That night Dean and Sam hid under the sheets, laughing and whispering as they practiced their new words.

Men never stayed round long, but new ones always came to replace ‘em. Papa said good men were scarce, said there were many that knew ranch work, but not a lot that’d do it, and fewer than that who could be trusted. He always said that was the saddest lesson, the distrust of men.

But it had been good, for a while. Sam remembers the day the state was admitted to the Union—it was right after Dean’s birthday. There was a parade in the town square, the mayor spoke, people were dancing. There were so many people. He remembers Mama smiling, Papa lifting Sam up so he could see. Sam knew there was talk of war, but as he watched the parade from his father’s shoulders, things didn’t seem so bad.

If Papa had survived, they might’ve been able to get land, under the law. But instead, they had nothing. Bobby took them and ran. Out West, out where it was harsh and wild and terrible.

 

Silver Lake, right near the Utah border, that was the town Bobby brought them to when they stopped running. When the money ran out, too. They knew no one, had nothing—and though Bobby tried angling for a few odd jobs, there was no way they could make a living. Dean went to bed hungry most nights, giving what little food they managed to get to Sam, who was still unable to sleep, shaking from dreams of that night—the flames, the screams, the shouts of the men as they destroyed their town, destroyed their lives.

Then Bobby said he had a friend—someone he could borrow enough from to get them started. Dean argued with him for days, at night when they thought Sam was asleep, but they couldn’t get around it. Sam wouldn’t survive out on the harsh trail into Utah, Dean said, and Dean would be damned if he was going to leave Sam on his own. Dean was torn. He couldn’t leave Sam, but if something were to happen to Bobby that Dean could have prevented…

But it didn’t matter. Bobby left anyway, paying a seedy man the last of his coins to let Dean and Sam sleep in his attic for a few weeks. The man kicked them out after four days. Despite all Dean’s protests—that he would exchange lodging for work, that they would sleep in the barn if they had to—but the man was hard and grown, and Dean was sixteen and nowhere near his match.

 

Sam clenches his hands tightly around the reins for a moment, then lets go, exhaling slowly. Most times he has good grips on his anger, but every now and again it surges, threatening to overwhelm him. He used to temper it with daydreams, fantasies about returning to Silver Lake and giving that snake of a man his due. Now he channels that anger into doin' good, into helping others—him and Dean both.

Sam clears his throat. Now to see if he can save his brother.

 

Conversation dwindles after that. Ruby doesn't try to pry anything else from him, and Sam isn't particularly forthcoming with conversation. By the time they stop at a small water station, around midday, the sun is hot and high, hanging heavy in the blue Colorado sky. Ruby fills up their canteens, and Sam splashes water onto the back of his neck, washing away the sweat and dirt that’s been sticking to his skin all morning. Ruby takes a drink and wipes her lips, scanning the meager place with a critical eye.

“These jerkwater towns are all the same,” she says disdainfully. “Don’t suppose there’s a decent meal for miles.”

Sam grunts noncommittally, placing his hat back on his head. Ruby watches him for a moment, then slips her canteen back into her horse's pack, pulling out a small money pouch. 

“As long as they have gin,” she says, jingling the coins in the pouch.

Then she starts off down the road, toward the few ramshackle buildings that make up the so-called town. Sam sighs, and follows.

 

x

 

They’ve only been on the trail for a few minutes when Dean realizes something is wrong.

He swivels in his saddle, just to make sure. The mountains to his left, the river to his right. They’re heading east.

“Ain’t Canon City the opposite way?” He voices aloud.

Gabriel glances back at him, a surprised but pleased look on his face.

“Perceptive of you, Sheriff.” He glances up ahead. “You see those two up there? Paranoid as hell. Which is why we sometimes take exceedingly long detours, even though it wastes all of our time,” he continues dryly.

Anna looks over her shoulder.

“You got somewhere else to be?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes.

 

A rough voice calls from ahead of them.

“I ain’t paranoid.”

 

Gabriel kicks at his horse’s sides, moving up next to Emmanuel.

“You’re the one who thought that little slip of a thing was following us.” He snorts. “That brown-haired girl, Anna, remember? Back near La Garita?”

“I do,” Anna says. “She had that look.”

“And we lost her,” Emmanuel says haughtily. “So it worked.”

He flips his reins, and starts to pull ahead to the front again. There’s a flash of silver, and Emmanuel’s horses stumbles slightly, before abruptly stopping.

Emmanuel frowns, turning in his saddle, peering down.

 

Gabriel pulls to a stop, calling out.

“What’s wrong?”

 

Emmanuel doesn’t answer, but instead swings off his horse, leaning down to check his horse’s back leg. He pulls up the hoof, and curses under his breath.

“Dammit,” he says. “She’s thrown a shoe.”

Anna cranes her neck, looking down too.

“She’ll probably be able to make it.”

“No.” Emmanuel shakes his head. “Ground’s far too rocky. She needs a new one. And I ain’t got none of my farrier tools.”

 

He drops the horse’s leg, swearing again.

“Really wanted to avoid going into town,” he mutters.

“Guess we got no choice,” Gabriel says.

“Well, after the stunt you pulled, the hell I’m letting you go alone,” Anna says to Emmanuel. Gabriel looks between the two of them.

“So I’m on Sheriff duty?” He says incredulously. “Again??”

“Hey,” Dean protests weakly.

“Yes,” Emmanuel says firmly, grabbing his horse’s reins. “And don’t go wandering.”

Dean tosses back his head.

“Oh, hell no.”

 

He pulls his horse around, cutting off Emmanuel’s path. If he’s surprised, the outlaw doesn’t show it—but he halts, squinting at Dean. Dean shakes his head.

“Em, you gotta let me come with you. I’m climbin’ the walls.”

Gabriel and Anna exchange a look. Dean holds up his hands.

“I swear, I won’t pull nothin’. Just gotta stretch my legs, talk to someone who isn’t you or Anna or goddamn Gabe.”

Gabriel scowls at him, but Emmanuel just looks surprisedly amused. Dean clears his throat.

“Please.”

Both Anna and Gabriel look to Emmanuel, who finally shrugs.

“Alright.”

 

He nods to Gabriel, who glares at him for a moment, but then beckons to Dean, reaching out and unlocking Dean’s cuffs. Dean immediately sighs in relief, rubbing at his wrists. Emmanuel whistles to him.

“But one wrong step, and I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” he says plainly.

Dean swallows.

“Duly noted,” he mutters.

 

x

 

Castiel steps up to the counter, taking off his hat. He brushes off some dust, waiting patiently as the woman in front of him finishes paying. She gives him a nervous look out of the corner of her eye, quickly exiting the store. Castiel purses his lips.

He greets the man behind the counter, who doesn’t bother looking up from his coins.

“You got a farrier in town?” Castiel asks.

The man jerks his head.

“Blacksmith is down the street. On the left.”

Castiel places his hat back on his head, tipping it.

“Much obliged.”

 

The blacksmith is a fat, balding man, who takes one look at the horse and leads it round the back, sitting at a stool as he starts on fixin’ the shoe, preparing a new one. Gabriel immediately takes off, mentioning the saloon they saw when they rode in. Anna doesn’t say anything, but moves to sit down on a nearby bench, keeping her eyes on Castiel. Seems she’s sticking to her word about not letting him out of her sight.

Castiel sighs, leaning up against one of the support posts. He takes his tobacco tin out of his pocket and sets to rolling a cigarette. He watches as the sheriff starts poking around, looking over the various tools and forges, curiously examining everything. Castiel tucks the tobacco into one of his last rolling papers, licking it to seal it closed. He lights it with a battered match, and sighs as he pulls smoke into his lungs, letting it out with a slow breath.

The sheriff comes back, looking happier than Castiel’s seen in days.

“How many you think man this place? Can’t be that many men with training, not in a town small as this.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Can’t say I gave it much thought.”

Odd. Winchester must be enjoying being in a real town again. He supposes it’s been the first time since they…

Castiel places the cigarette back into his mouth, a strange twist of guilt running through him.

 

Even stranger. Castiel has plenty of things keeping him awake at night, plenty of his sins that he knows he’ll never be able to make right—but the few times they’d ransomed lawmen, he’d never felt ashamed. It was more like righting a wrong, evening the playing field. Fighting back against the corruption that ran through the poor excuse for a legal system in the West.

But this time, it’s different.

Castiel tries not to think too much on the reason, because if he does, then he’d have to start admitting things to himself.

 

“Who are you?”

Castiel turns. There’s a boy standing in the entrance of the blacksmith’s shop, looking at them curiously.

Anna darts a glance at Castiel. He drops his cigarette, grinding it into the dirt with his boot.

“Uh, no one, kid. Just visitors. Horse needed a new shoe.”

But instead of deterring him, the kid grins, and hops up on the bench next to Anna. She backs away slightly, looking at Castiel in alarm. He snorts. Deadliest shot in the territory and she's terrified of some scruffy kid.

“We don’t get many new folks around here,” the kid says eagerly. “It’s excitin’.”

Anna looks the boy up and down suspiciously, but the sheriff comes up to him, smiling gently.

“How old are you, kid?”

The boy smiles.

“Be seventeen in November,” he says cheerfully.

“Jesus,” Anna mutters under her breath.

“You ain’t much older,” Castiel says flatly. She glares at him.

“My papa owns the place,” the kid is saying. “Where are you from?”

Castiel hesitates. There’s nothin’ but open honesty in the boy’s expression, but—

“Samandriel,” a man’s voice calls sharply. “Come away from there. Need your help.”

Castiel looks over to the fat blacksmith. There’s another man standing next to him, one who quickly turns and walks away once he sees Castiel staring. The back of Castiel's neck prickles.

“My name,” the boy says haughtily. “Is Sam.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees the sheriff’s head turn sharply. Castiel glances at him, seeing something like pain flash through Winchester’s eyes.

He’s unable to pursue it further, because at that moment, the blacksmith comes back. He seizes his son by the arm.

“Come on, boy,” he says, a tight smile on his face. “Don’t bother the gentleman.”

“It’s no trouble,” Castiel says slowly, but there’s something tugging at his instincts, telling him something is wrong.

“Horse is ready,” the blacksmith says in the same falsely cheery tone. “Why don’t you come around the front to pay?”

Castiel glances at Anna. She stands, her eyes narrowed as well.

“That really won’t be necessary,” Castiel says, unhooking his gun holster. “I’d rather pay here.”

“Nonsense,” the blacksmith says, pulling his son by the arm out into the street. “I insist.”

 

The man disappears, moving like a demon is after him.

“Shit,” Castiel says.

“Emmanuel!” A voice thunders. 

 

Anna's gun is out and in her hand in a second. The three of them stand motionless, the wind swirling through the smithy's open door, rattling the wood with a ghostly howl.

“Come on out of there, Emmanuel!” The voice calls again. “Or I’m gonna blow you out of here and straight into hell!”

Castiel briefly closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. Then he sets his back in a steely line, and walks out into the sunlight.

  

Opposite him stands a man. A man in a tattered coat, gaunt lines in his weathered face. The patchy beard on his cheeks is new, but those eyes are the same. Pale and cruel, fixed on Castiel.

 

Castiel exhales slowly.

“Alastair,” he mutters.

 

Alastair grins, revealing a lopsided mouth full of yellow teeth. Castiel’s hand flexes, fingers itching for his gun.

“Who sent you?” He asks. Alastair smile only widens.

“You know exactly who, Emmanuel,” he says, the name dripping with condescension.

Castiel quickly scans the street around them, noting how it’s suddenly deserted. A setup.

“What do you want, Alastair?” Castiel asks.

Alastair laughs, taking a slow step forward.

“Thought that was obvious. You.”

“Sorry, not interested,” Castiel replies. “Try a brothel.”

Alastair’s smile tightens slightly.

“Come now,” he says dangerously. “We know that’s not true.”

Castiel hears the sheriff’s small intake of breath behind him. He grits his teeth, glaring at Alastair.

“How’d you find me?”

Alastair’s hand is too close to his belt. Castiel keeps his eyes dead ahead, fixed on Alastair’s.

“Raphael,” the bounty hunter says, and Castiel curses. He knew it.

"It was sloppy," Alastair continues. "Child’s play to follow you after that.”

His brow pinches slightly. “Not sure what Raphael ever did to deserve _that_ , but…”

“He’s gonna draw, Em,” Anna whispers urgently from behind him. “You don’t know how fast he is—”

“That’s my business,” Castiel says calmly. “No one else’s.”

Alastair simpers.

“Of course it is. And mine is bringing you in.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Castiel says, spreading his hands wide. “Come on.”

 

Alastair stares at him. Anna and the sheriff are frozen behind him, everything silent. He’s not afraid of Alastair, not one bit—but he’s not going to put Anna and the sheriff in danger. Never.

Castiel chuckles softly, lowering his hands.

“I thought so.”

All the same, he turns his body slightly, angling into a better position. Castiel's fingers tense, brushing his gun.

"If you wanted to bring me in, Alastair, you shouldn’t have come alone.”

Alastair smirks.

“You think I’d come alone?”

 

Castiel’s smile drops.

 

He dives to the ground, just as a bullet splinters the support beam behind him. He scrambles behind the first thing he sees for cover—a rotting wagon—and sees the kid—Sam—standing on the porch and gaping at the scene on the street.

“Get inside,” Castiel growls out, yanking his six shooter and scrambling into position to aim.

“Wh-what?”

Castiel whirls on him.

“ _Get inside!_ ” He yells.

The kid near trips over his own feet in fright, but finally he obeys, disappearing behind a dilapidated door. 

 

The window above him shatters, and Castiel ducks, broken shards of glass hitting the back of his coat. He shakes his head and looks up, eyes darting back and forth, calculating quickly. There’s thick gunsmoke clouding the square—and he can hear Anna yelling, her shots answering every one of Alastair’s. Far off, he sees a body drop—but whose it is, he can’t tell. 

Another shot hisses past his ear, and the wagon that is serving as his cover creaks and groans, one wheel buckling ominously. Castiel curses and tightens his grip on his gun, moving up to the very edge of the wagon. He takes a deep breath, and darts out into the square, the dirt behind his feet exploding. 

He throws himself behind some stacked barrels, only to see the sheriff, covering his head with his hands, sheltering from the echo of gunfire.

Castiel scrambles to his side, ducking as another shot ricochets above them.

“Hey, Sheriff,” he pants, fumbling at his pockets. “Can you shoot?”

Winchester lifts his head, green eyes frightened but hard, chest heaving with his breath.

“Ye—yeah,” he answers. “I’m—I’m a pretty good shot.”

A bullet rips through one of the barrels above their heads, showering them with splinters of wood. Castiel grabs the sheriff's wrist, feeling his entire body stiffen as he drags him close, staring straight into his eyes.

“I ain’t looking for pretty good."

 

 

Dean swallows, looking at the gun. The hot sun beats down on his shoulders, Emmanuel's hand hot around Dean's wrist.

“I can hit a can at 50 paces,” Dean says shakily.

 

A brief expression of surprise flits across the outlaw's face. For a moment, he just stares at Dean, his mouth parted slightly.

But then it's gone, and Emmanuel is loading up a second gun, his jaw clenched, set in grim determination. He snaps the gun's chamber closed, spinning it sharply and holding it out, grip-first, for Dean to take.

Dean reaches out, but suddenly Emmanuel draws back, eyes piercing.

“I give you this, you ain't gonna shoot me, are ya?” He asks, a wry note in his tone, even in the middle of a goddamn firefight.

Dean quickly shakes his head.

“I won’t," he says, only slightly surprised to find it's true.

Dean's never gone back on a promise before. He ain't gonna start now.

"Besides." He holds his hand out, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile. “I’d give you more of a fighting chance that that."

Emmanuel looks at him for a moment, then laughs, and takes Dean's hand, placing the gun into his palm.

“Do me a favor, Sheriff," he says. "Don’t miss."

 

A second barrel shatters, blown to bits by a stray shot. Emmanuel crouches, moving towards the end of the stack. Dean is motionless, transfixed by the weapon in his hand. It's different, thinner and lighter than his own, but no less familiar in his grip. Dean curls his finger around the trigger, exhaling slowly. He hasn’t held a gun since he shot that man at the camp.

Emmanuel pokes his head out from behind the barrels, and nearly gets it blown off as a result. Dean grabs his sleeve and yanks him back, hissing.

“Are you insane? We can’t—"

A rattle of shots, the two of them pausing briefly to duck.

Dean shakes his head, pressing his back flat against their meager cover.

"We can't move from here," he says to the outlaw. "We’re pinned down.”

"That's the thing you gotta learn, Sheriff."

Emmanuel looks back at Dean, a gleam in his eye.

 

“I’m never pinned down.”

 

 

Then he bolts, darting out into the smoke-filled street.

Dean curses, and scrambles after him.

 

And runs straight into hell.

 

Voices yelling, the echo of gunshots, smoke stinging his lungs—

Dean coughs, trying to find Emmanuel in the haze. He takes a few steps in the direction he thinks the outlaw took, but finds his chest seizing, something rooting him to the spot.

A horse whinnies and Dean nearly drops the gun, gasping.

 

The shootout with the men hadn’t affected him this way, why is he now staggering to his knees, struggling for breath?

 

“Watch out—”

Dean drags his eyes up, everything hazy. A pale young face at the window—

"Get _down_!"

Emmanuel is yelling.

“Get down, Sam!”

 

Dean gasps, seizing.

 

_“Sam, get down!”_

 

Sam, staring out the window in horror.

 

_“Dean, they’re burning the barn!”_

_Dean knows, can hear the screams of the terrified horses—the yells and whoops of the men, the sickly orange glow from the flames._

_“Get away from the window,” Dean hisses, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. At that moment, John bursts in, limping heavily._

_“Sam, Dean—”_

_Dean stands, his heart pounding. John shoves a leather bag into his hands. He’s got a shotgun in his own._

_“Boys—take this and go.”_

_“What’s happening?” Dean asks, hushed._

_“Quantrill’s men,” John growls. “They’re raiding the whole town.”_

_“Papa,” Sam whispers. “They burned the barn.”_

_John grabs both of them, quickly rushing them out the bedroom and towards the back door. He takes Dean’s arm, speaking urgently._

_“You take your brother, and you run. Don’t look back.”_

_Dean nods dumbly, the leather pack heavy in his hands._

_“I been talking with Bobby,” John is saying. “He said he’ll find you.”_

_“Bobby Singer? How _—_ ” _

_“And Dean—”_

_John’s hand covers his own, placing a revolver in his hands._

_“To the cornfield,” he whispers. “Go.”_

_Sam clutches at their father’s sleeve._

_“Where you going?” He says, his voice high and thin with fright._

_John’s face is grim._

_“Mary’s in town. I’m going to get her,” he says, cocking the shotgun._

_He pushes them out the backdoor._

_“Run, boys,” is the last thing he says to them. “Now, Dean—go!”_

 

_Dean grabs Sam’s small hand, and they run._

 

_Someone’s screaming. Heavy footsteps run past him, the sound of horses, whinnying in fear._

_Dean looks around deliriously, noise and fear and chaos all around him—he hears his father’s voice, shouting, and the answering round of bullets._

_His heart is pounding, lungs threatening to burst out of his chest, but he runs, runs, clutching Sam’s hand tightly, runs until everything fades away—the heat from the fire, the sound of men and horses—until they’re alone in a sea of cornstalks._

 

_Dean runs until legs are aching._

_“Dean,” Sam whimpers from behind him. “I’m tired.”_

 

_They come to a stop, panting. He tells Sam to sit down, and Dean sits with him, holding his brother as he shivers._

 

_He doesn’t know how much time passes. They’re both tired, cold and hungry, aching from sitting on the hard ground when Bobby finds them. Dean doesn’t know how he finds them, but he does._

_“Dean? Sam?”_

_Sam looks up at Dean, his hazel eyes wide and frightened._

_There’s a lantern bobbing through the stalks, coming closer._

_The voice comes again._

_“Dean Winchester?”_

_“Bobby,” Dean croaks._

 

_The lantern approaches, revealing a terrified and wrinkled face, Bobby panting for breath._

_“There you are, boys,” he says. “I was startin’ to think…”_

_He trails off._

_“Either of you hurt?”_

_They both shake their heads mutely. Bobby sighs, extending a hand._

_“C’mon. We gotta go.”_

_“But Mama,” Sam says. “Papa—”_

_“Ain’t no time, kid,” Bobby says sadly, as if he wishes to God it weren’t true. “We gotta get you out of here. Gotta get you safe.”_

 

For a few weeks, Dean held out the childish hope that his parents survived. Bobby said that they were only going after the men. Their mother would be fine.

But then the newspapers came out.

A massacre they called it. A hundred and sixty-four dead. More, probably.

They came with six-shot revolvers, and there were hundreds of them. They shot Mama and they shot kids, too. They murdered and burned half the town—all because the townsfolk of Lawrence thought people shouldn’t own other people.

 

_“Sheriff!”_

 

Dean jerks back to the present, gasping wildly. Emmanuel is crouched over him, a worried terror in his eyes.

He grips Dean’s shoulder.

“You with me?” He yells.

Dean nods, shakily, coughing.

“Yeah,” he gets out. “Y-yeah, I’m with you.”

 

Emmanuel grabs his arm and pulls him up, the pair of them half-running, half-crouching to dive behind an abandoned wagon. Dean puts up the revolver, peering around.

He takes deep breaths, shutting out every other thought. Two men are shooting from the broken windows of a nearby building. Anna is about twenty feet away from them, ducking down behind a weathered fence, sending shots over the top. Alastair’s nowhere to be seen, but two bodies are lying on the ground.

A bullet ricochets off the wagon and Dean throws himself back, panting. He takes a deep breath and whips around the edge again, lifting the gun up to aim.

But which one? He stares at the two men across the square, his arms shaking.

Then, clear as day, he sees a third man spill out into the alley to their right, lifting his rifle and pointing it straight at Anna’s back.

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

He turns and fires, falling back in shock. The man drops the rifle, his body hitting the ground not long after. Emmanuel breathes heavily beside him.

“Nice shot,” he says.

Dean lets adrenaline carry him through the rest of the fight. They hit two more, and at some point Gabriel appears, his coat ripped and half his face covered in soot. He has something in his hands, something long and thin with a fuse at the end.

“Is that what I think it is?” Dean shouts, firing another shot at the shooter in the window.

“Yep,” Gabriel says.

He tosses it up and over the wagon, covering his ears.

 

_Boom._

 

They slowly look up from behind the wagon, Gabriel standing.

The square is destroyed. Half the buildings are shot up, three dead men lining the streets. Alastair is on his back, groaning, the remnants of the dynamite smoking around him.

Emmanuel slowly moves forward, his gun ready in his hand.

“I’ll get ‘im, you just watch—”

Emmanuel whips around.

“ _No—”_

It’s like it happens in slow motion. Samandriel bursts from the blacksmith’s shop, holding a rifle in his hands, aiming it at Alastair, who’s slowly getting to his feet, feeling for his gun.

Gabriel bolts forward, but Alastair is too fast. One shot, two—Samandriel drops to the ground, and Gabriel is down, a red stripe ripped through his leg, the cotton around quickly growing dark with blood.

One bullet to the head and Alastair falls back, dead.

 

Dean whips around, seeing Emmanuel lower his gun, shaking.

 

Anna bolts forward towards Gabriel, who’s on the ground, struggling and swearing up a storm. Once Emmanuel sees, he curses and drops his gun, rushing to Gabriel's side. Anna is pulling on Gabriel’s arm, trying to yank him up—but there’s so much blood—

Dean skids up beside them, staring, frozen. Anna and Emmanuel start snapping back and forth at each other, arguing in loud voices.

“We gotta take him to a doctor—”

“Are you fucking kidding me, we can’t do that—”

“He’s going to _die,_ you cold son of a bitch—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

Dean grabs Emmanuel’s shoulder.

“We have to close it,” he says.

 

Emmanuel stares at him for a moment, then whips his head around, looking at the blacksmith’s shop.

“Sheriff,” he says sharply.

Dean moves automatically, grabbing Gabriel’s arm. Emmanuel shucks his coat, rolling up his sleeves.

They drag him to the shop, Gabriel’s eyes rolling, thrashing against Dean and Anna’s hold.

“Hold him,” Anna says, gritting her teeth.

“I am,” Dean snaps.

Emmanuel pulls a knife from his belt, the sharp blade catching the light.

Gabriel blanches.

“You ain’t puttin’ that on me,” he bellows, yanking at Dean and Anna’s hands. “No damn way—”

Emmanuel ignores him, sticking his knife into the lit forge. They wait for several tense moments, cutting away the rest of the cloth from the bullet wound in Gabriel’s leg. It cut him good, went clean through the muscle of his thigh. He’ll bleed out if they don’t close the wound soon.

Emmanuel whips out his belt, and forces it in between Gabriel’s teeth. He fights him the whole way, snarling.

“You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch—”

Emmanuel shoves the belt in between his lips, and Gabriel bites down, his eyes furious.

“You ain’t dyin’ on me,” Emmanuel says. “Not today.”

He wraps his hand in cloth and grabs the knife as soon as the edge takes a red tinge. He takes a deep breath, and presses it to Gabriel’s thigh.

Gabriel screams around the belt, straining against Dean’s hold _—_ it takes almost all of Dean’s strength to hold him down.

When it’s over, the wound is sealed, sticky blood congealing around the fresh burn.

 

Gabriel is just barely conscious, Anna shaking him slightly, getting him to sit up—when Emmanuel draws back, disappearing into the smoke. Dean calls after him.

“Hey!”

 

The smoke shifts, clears somewhat, and Dean sees what the outlaw is doing. He kicks Alastair’s gun from his hand, swiftly kneeling down to check his pulse. He draws back a moment later, turning and halting. Emmanuel's eyes are fixed on the body not three feet away, sandy blonde hair ruffling in the slight breeze.

“C’mon.”

Anna has slung Gabriel’s arm over her shoulder, and she’s leading him away from the carnage. “We gotta get out of here.”

Dean glances back at Emmanuel, but he hasn’t moved, frozen. Dean curses, and turns back to the blacksmith's shop.

 

Emmanuel’s horse is just where they left her, unscathed, but slightly spooked from the noise. It takes Dean throwing all his weight against the reins to get her out to the street, and he leads her over to Emmanuel, thrusting the reins out.

“Here,” he says, shaking them. Emmanuel doesn’t move. Dean shakes his head.

“Look,” he says. “There was nothing you coulda done. We gotta go.”

“He died because of me,” Emmanuel whispers.

Dean raises a hand, then uncertainly halts.

“It _—_ it wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs.

“You don’t know anything,” Emmanuel snaps. “I swore, never again, never _again_ —”

He looks up at Dean, his eyes tortured and wet, his voice thick with anguish.

“Not like this,” he whispers.

 

Dean grabs Emmanuel's wrist, shoving the reins in his hand.

“We gotta go,” he urges. “C’mon, Em. _C’mon_.”

Dean tugs at his arm, and somehow boosts the outlaw up onto his horse, who seems to be moving without realizing what he’s doing. Dean runs to his horse and jumps on, turning the reins to ride up next to Anna and Gabriel—he’s managed to get in the saddle as well.

 

The four of them gallop out of the town, pushing to almost breakneck speeds. Nobody stops them. Nobody comes after them.

 

They don’t dare stop until the pitch darkness forces them to. They don’t risk a fire, only a small lamp—and so starts a restless night, the four of them cold and shivering, all waiting for the sun to rise. Gabriel passes out a short time later, which seems to be a blessing.

Emmanuel still seems strangely frozen, sitting at the edge of the camp, staring into the darkness.

  

Dean crawls up next to him.

“Emmanuel.”

The outlaw doesn’t answer. Dean swallows.

“It wasn't your fault,” he says softly. Emmanuel's hands clench, but he still remains silent. Dean takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t know why he gives a damn. He shouldn’t—but the man before him is hurting, raw and real, and Dean just wants to fix it.

“He might still be alive,” he says, even though he doesn’t believe it. “We don’t know.”

“But we just left him there,” Emmanuel murmurs. It’s the first words he’s spoken since they left the town. “Left him with no help.”

Dean swallows.

“He had his father,” he says softly. “That’s more than some of us had.”

Emmanuel turns his head, staring at Dean. He’s removed his hat, and everything about him hangs heavy, lines of sorrow and regret surrounding sunken eyes, dark pools that draw Dean in, wishing him closer.

“He never would’ve gotten shot if it wasn’t for me,” Emmanuel whispers. “That’s the truth.”

 

 

Dean opens his mouth, but he can’t find an answer to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Lawrence Massacre](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawrence_massacre) was a real event that happened in 1863, during the Civil War, where a Confederate group known as Quantrill's raiders attacked and destroyed the town of Lawrence, killing about 160 people. Lawrence was a target because it was a well-known anti-slavery town, and William Quantrill was a Confederate leader. The famous outlaw Jesse James and his brother Frank belonged to this group and it is believed they took part in the raid on Lawrence.


	7. Wanted

“You sure this is a good idea?”

 

Ruby pauses a few seconds to throw Sam a look, before downing the glass in front of her.

“Another,” she says, pushing the glass back towards the innkeep. “And one for my friend here.”

The man glances at the two of them, but fills up the glass without a word, then setting one in front of Sam. Sam brings it up to his lips without the intention of really drinking it, and wrinkles his nose at the smell. He sets the glass back down.

Ruby throws back her second, leaning back and looking around. Mostly empty, which seems to be to her liking. Less witnesses.

She turns her attention to the man behind the bar.

“You. Sir.”

He stops cleaning glasses and moves forward.

“Another, sweetheart?” He asks in a gravelly voice.

Ruby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. She shakes her head.

“No,” she says curtly. “Just wanted to know if you had seen this man, maybe came through here in the past few days.”

She elbows Sam, who scrambles to keep up, fumbling for the small photograph of Dean. He holds it up for the bartender to see, and the man leans forward, squinting under dusty spectacles.

“Hmm,” he says. “Could be.”

Sam frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my memory’s a bit fuzzy,” the man says, but his eyes are sharp and clear. “If only there was something that could help me remember a bit.”

Sam glances at Ruby. Her eyes have gone narrow, and she’s staring at the man with an intense dislike. Sam sighs, reaching for his pocket.

He pulls out a few coins, some of the last he has. He places them on the bar, pushing them forward. The man’s face splits out into a greedy smile.

“Well, now, it’s starting to come back to me.”

He reaches for the coins, and quick as a flash—Ruby has his wrist in one hand, and her pistol in the other. She pins him to the bar, pressing the muzzle down into the fat meat of his hand.

“Lucky for you,” she snarls. “Hope it stays, otherwise you’re gonna lose some fingers.”

The man jerks against her, his face paling to the color of curdled milk. But Ruby’s grip might as well be iron.

She cocks the gun.

“What did you see?” She spits through her teeth.

“I—nothing! I don’t know!” The barkeep stutters out. “‘M pretty sure that—that man was here, two days ago.”

Sam had jerked back in his chair when Ruby pulled out the revolver, horrified. But now he finds his heart beating for an entirely different reason.

“Where did they go?” Sam blurts. Ruby's eyes dart towards him, but he ignores her. “Did he say anything? Who was he with?”

The man shakes his head, raising his other hand in surrender.

“There were—there were three of ‘em. Or four—”

Ruby jerks his hand, twisting the wrist, and the man cries out in pain. Sam starts to bolt forward, then halts himself, clenching his fists. 

“What was it, three or four?” Ruby snaps.

“Three!” The man cries. “Three others. B-bad types, from the look of ‘em.” He swallows, sweating somethin' awful. “They didn’t stay for more than twenty minutes. Loaded up and headed out."

“That’s it?” Ruby asks, glaring at him.

The man shakes his head quickly.

“That’s it!” He ducks his head, almost groveling. “I swear. P-please. I swear that's all I know.”

Ruby digs the revolver deeper into his hand.

“You think real hard about that now,” she says lowly.

Sam watches in a sort of terrified fascination. He knows he should probably step in—knows he should probably tell Ruby to back off—but she _had_ gotten the barkeep to talk. More than Sam himself might have been able to.

“I—”

The man shudders.

“I don't know," he says shakily. "When they left, they were—they were headed north." He drops his head before Ruby, sniffling heavily. "Th-that’s all I know. I sw-swear.”

Ruby watches him for a few seconds more, eyes cold and calculating.

 

Then she throws him back, with such force that the bartender falls, tumbles backward and crashes into the shelf behind him. Ruby stands, holstering her pistol.

“Thank you for your time,” she says, sweeping the coins off the bar into her hand.

 

Ruby jerks her head, voice hard.

“Sam. Let's go.”

 

Then she turns on her heel, striding out the barroom door.

 

x

 

Dean’s head is aching. He’s got a stitch in his side he can’t seem to get rid of, and his eyes are blurring with heat and fatigue. He’s not really sure where they are now—the sky is getting dark, and they’re riding up to an old but big house, the soft clip of hooves the only sound in his ears.

They come to a stop, and Emmanuel dismounts quickly, going up to the weathered front door. He knocks, and they wait impatiently, Dean swaying a little in his saddle. Eventually the door creaks open, and an older woman pokes her head out, eyeing Emmanuel with distrust.

“What?” She asks flatly.

Emmanuel tips his hat.

“Good evening, ma’am.” His smile is dazzling, and Dean knows firsthand the effect it has on strangers. “Heard you might have rooms for weary travelers.”

The woman slowly looks him up and down, lip twisting shrewdly.

“Try the inn up the road,” she says, and goes to shut the door.

Emmanuel’s hand snaps out, catching the edge. His eyes flash.

“Balthazar said you’re always welcoming to friends in need,” he says smoothly.

The woman visibly relaxes, her expression quickly shifting to irritation.

“Oh, you’re one of those then, are ya?” She glances behind him, taking in the bedraggled sight of Dean and the other outlaws, sitting ahorse in the dim light of the setting sun.

“Well.” She sniffs. “Guess you ought to come in. There’s only two rooms, you’ll have to share.”

Emmanuel glances back before following her in through the door. He’s been tight-lipped ever since the encounter with Alastair, and had led them to this house without explanation, after a full day and a half of riding. Dean doesn’t care. The prospect of sleeping in a bed has him nearly crying.

After Anna’s led their horses away, the woman, whose name is Tasha, shows them up to their rooms. Ain’t nothing special, just a bare room with a lavabo, and twin beds crammed in each corner. Dean’s ready to collapse.

He does as much, gracelessly falling onto the closest bed, not even bothering to take his boots off. He saw Tasha looking at their injuries curiously, but he suspects she ain’t gonna pry. Her policy seems to strictly be no questions asked. As long as Emmanuel turns up some shiny coins, Dean suspects she’ll let the outlaws do whatever they want, short of burning down the place.

“Hey.”

Dean shifts, closing his eyes. He just wants to sleep.

“ _Hey.”_

Dean cracks open an eye. Gabriel is sitting opposite him, hissing as he props up his leg.

“You promise to behave, and I won’t lock you up for the night.”

 

Dean just flutters a hand in his direction. Gabriel purses his lips, leaning back against the pillows with a pained groan.

A knock, and Emmanuel enters. He’s lost the hat and his traveling coat, stripped down to his undershirt and suspenders. He glances briefly at Dean, then at Gabriel.

“You got my razor?” He asks roughly.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow.

“You think that’ll help?”

Emmanuel shrugs, holding out a hand. Gabriel digs around in his pockets, pulling out a straight razor, silver and shiny. Dean tracks it with his eyes, as Emmanuel takes it, flipping it open, examining the edge. It’s sharp.

“If they’re looking for a man with a beard, might throw ‘em off the trail for a little while,” Dean says, sitting up.

Both Emmanuel and Gabriel look at him. He shrugs.

“Couldn’t hurt.”

Emmanuel flips open the razor.

“Exactly.”

 

Gabriel waves down Tasha when she passes, asking her to fetch some water.

"There's a well outside," she replies, barely breaking stride. "Get it yourself.”

Gabriel pushes himself up onto his elbows, grumbling under his breath.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “To an injured man, I swear—”

But he waves away Dean and Emmanuel’s offers, and comes back a few minutes later, grumbling and groaning as he sets down the water pail. Dean watches as Emmanuel sets himself up, working up the lather in a small cup, adjusting the small looking glass on the basin in front of him. The razor lies next to him, glinting in the light.

Gabriel unlaces his boots, releasing a truly foul smell, prompting several minutes of abuse from Dean and Emmanuel. Gabriel ignores the both of them, kicking back against the wall on the tiny bed, pulling out a dime novel from his pack. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Well, damn. I didn’t expect you to know how to read.”

Gabriel gives Dean a rude gesture without looking up from the book. Emmanuel snorts, turning back to the glass and picking up the razor. He’s lucky he has the smell of the shaving soap to drown out Gabriel. Dean’s sure he ain’t smelling like a rose, neither. It’s been days since the lake, and nothing near what they needed after their time on the trail. Dean supposes it’s too much to hope Miss Tasha’s hospitality extends to letting them use her tub.

 

Emmanuel has started, dragging the edge of the razor down his cheek, leaving a clean stripe in the lather. He wipes off the blade with a towel, then starts again, his moves careful, slow, methodical. Dean watches, absently rubbing his cheek.

“Figure I’m due for a shave, too,” he says.

Emmanuel looks up, eyes immediately flicking to Dean. Dean clears his throat, forcing himself to hold eye contact.

“After you’re done,” he clarifies.

Emmanuel stares at him for a moment longer, unblinking. Then he turns, going back to his task.

“After I’m done,” he repeats.

 

Dean does his best to keep his eyes away from Emmanuel after that. But he can’t help get drawn back to the slow sweep of the blade across his chin, down his throat, nimble fingers light but strong—

Dean feels an uncomfortable lump in his throat and abruptly turns away.

 

“Winchester.”

 

Dean opens his eyes, sitting up. Emmanuel is leaning over the basin, rinsing the last of the lather from his face. Dean stands, moving over to his side.

“What happened to ‘Sheriff’?” He asks, only half-joking.

Emmanuel comes up, wiping his face.

“Well, that’s your name, isn’t it?” He asks. “Figured I oughta start using it.”

He notices Dean staring and lowers the towel, raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

Dean swallows. The man in front of him looks younger, without the whiskers—his face a little lined, tan from the sun, a few stray beads of water dripping down his cheek. 

“Nothing,” Dean mutters, averting his eyes.

 

He takes a seat in front of the wash basin, holding out a hand. Emmanuel looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

“You kidding?” He says. “No way I’m letting you touch this razor.”

Dean curls his fingers into a fist, dropping it to his lap. His face must betray his surprise, because Emmanuel snorts, eyeing Dean's disappointed expression in the glass.

He leans in. 

“You ain’t as subtle as you think you are, Winchester,” he murmurs.

A shiver runs down Dean’s back.

 

Emmanuel straightens, picking up the bowl of lather, mixing it up. Dean stares at his reflection in the glass, his heartbeat jumping. He’s seriously regretting this decision. He might’ve been through several fights with the man on the same side, but Dean’s still letting one of the most dangerous outlaws the state’s ever seen go at him with a straight razor.

Something cold touches the side of his face and Dean jumps, jerking away from the touch.

“Relax,” comes a low voice, right next to his ear. Dean freezes, his hands gripping his thighs.

Emmanuel chuckles, and continues to spread the lather over his chin. Dean’s managed to develop a decent beard over the last—two weeks, he thinks it’s been? But he’s never liked having a beard, and this’ll be a welcome relief. Even if he is letting a criminal stick a blade to his throat.

Emmanuel continues to work up the shaving soap and apply it to Dean’s face, before running the razor over a leather strop a few times. Dean holds his breath.

The outlaw laughs again.

“Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna kill you.”

The cold edge of the blade touches Dean’s throat, and he thinks his heart stops beating.

Then it drags up the underside of his chin, smooth and clean, and then it’s gone.

It becomes hypnotic, the clean scrape of the blade. The soft prickle, Emmanuel’s hand feather-light on Dean's skin.

“You’re worth a lot more to me alive,” the outlaw says absently, wiping the razor clean.

That snaps Dean out of it. He opens his eyes, taking in his flushed expression in the mirror.

How could he have been so stupid?

 

Dean was insane to forget what this was. He’s a prisoner. Nothing more. Even if they have eased up around him, even if they’re talking to him more, even if sometimes Emmanuel stares at Dean for just a little too long—it all means nothing. To them, he’s just another ransom.

Dean was no stranger to men in his bed, and while it was all hidden and kept secret, there were a lot of lonely men out on the trail, lonely men who had no problem finding comfort where they could get it. Many a rider had passed through their small town and found their way into the sheriff’s quarters.

He kept it a tight secret. He thinks Sam might have suspected, once, but he never attempted to bring it up.

It was always the same. Some stranger would ride in, covered in dirt and dust from the road. Dean could never resist dark eyes and a beautiful smile.

Not to say that there weren’t women. But a woman traveling on her own, or willing to spend one night with a stranger—that was hard to come by in the West. And if one did, she usually was expecting payment.

And now Emmanuel. The man is an enigma. Up until now, Emmanuel had treated Dean with an air of barely concealed dislike. The man ran hot and cold—painted as a deadened criminal with no remorse, no soul, no compassion—but then there were the moments when his frosty exterior would melt, like just now, and Dean would find himself in dangerous territory. It's no wonder the name and the man came to be so notorious. He’s a mess of contradictions.

Dean had thought, after the shootout with Alastair…

He shakes his head. Stupid. He was being stupid.

Dean had spent nearly two weeks with the man, and was no closer to unraveling the mystery. And now Dean feels the familiar curl, excitement and thrill when the outlaw addresses him, steps up into his space, the heat in their lingering gazes. And Dean hates himself, hates himself for the attraction he can't control.

 

He stands abruptly, surprising Emmanuel.

"Figure that's good enough," he says gruffly, grabbing the towel and wiping the rest of the lather from his face. "I'm beat."

He throws the towel back on the lavabo, pointedly not looking at Emmanuel. Dean puts his back to the two outlaws and drops down onto the tiny bed in the corner.

He closes his eyes, and prays for sleep.

 

x

 

Castiel closes the door behind him, taking a deep breath.

That was….stupid. Incredibly stupid of him.

 

He allowed himself a moment of weakness, gave in to the desire to touch. But he's not going to be weak again. He’s not going to let that man get into his head. The sheriff is certainly...different from the other lawmen he’s met—but that doesn’t mean anything. They’re no more than a day from Canon City. They’ll get their money and then Castiel will be rid of Winchester and his green eyes forever.

He wanders downstairs, finding the sitting room empty, but a fire dancing merrily in the grate. Castiel takes a seat in one of the cushioned chairs, digging around in his pockets, finding his tin of tobacco and sets to rolling a cigarette. He puts the tin away and puts the quirly to his lips, striking a match against his boot. It sparks, and Castiel lights the cigarette, inhaling deeply before settling back in the chair. He sits, one hand hanging limply over the arm of the chair, staring deep into the fire. He can feel its heat, but it doesn’t chase away the chill in his bones.

“You ain’t smoking in here.”

Castiel turns.

Tasha has come from a room in the back, holding her sewing in her hands. She eyes him coldly.

“Take it outside, boy,” she says dismissively, sweeping over to the other chair and sitting as well. Castiel dips his head.

“Apologies, ma’am.”

Tasha raises an eyebrow, but makes no comment as Castiel extinguishes the end of the cigarette with his finger, tucking it into his pocket for later. She starts on her sewing, leaning forward slightly so she can have some better light.

“Miss Banes.”

“Mm.”

Castiel laces his fingers together, propping them under his chin.

“I understand you have children.”

She pauses, glancing up sharply.

“How you know that?”

Castiel holds up a hand, trying to calm her suspicion.

“Let’s just say I was told by a friend. And I—”

“Balthazar,” Tasha spits. “That sonuva—”

“Miss Banes, wait.”

She holds, but Castiel can see the distrust in her eyes, the tension in every line of her body. Castiel sighs.

“Let me explain?” He says softly, reaching for his jacket pocket. Tasha doesn’t move, her sharp eyes watching him.

He pulls out the leather parcel, the money they lifted off the thief back in the desert. He’s kept it close this entire time, to make sure it reached its destination. He sets it on the table in front of her, unwrapping it. For a moment she simply stares at the money, then looks back up at Castiel.

“How the hell—”

“Every lawman in the area was given notice when the Banes robbed that bank,” Castiel says, sitting back. “I expect you had some folks knocking on your door, looking for ‘em.”

Tasha doesn’t respond, but her eyes say everything. Castiel continues.

“They turned to a friend for help. Balthazar.” He dips his head. “As you might know...he doesn’t always have the best judgment. The Banes twins needed someone to keep their money, deliver it back to you. Instead, the man took it and ran.”

Castiel folds his hands. 

“You don’t owe me a cent, Miss Banes. Balthazar asked me and I did it willingly. You won’t need to worry about money again.”

Tasha reaches out, tentatively touching the edge of one of the bills. Her eyes are watery.

“Have you…” She swallows. “Have you heard anything? About them? I ain’t seen them since that night, and I—”

She cuts off, overcome with emotion. Castiel stands, moving to her side.

“I’m sorry, Miss Banes,” he says softly, kneeling. “I don’t—”

“Tasha,” she says, eyes not moving from the bundle on the table.

“Tasha,” Castiel repeats. He lays a hand on the arm of the chair, just shy of her own.

“I can’t tell you they’re safe,” he murmurs. “I can’t. But I can promise you.”

She turns to meet his eyes, and Castiel takes a deep breath, letting all the honesty and truth show through his tone.

“They will always have a safe place with us. If they ever need it.”

Tasha covers Castiel's hand with her own, her voice quavering.

“I don’t even know your name,” she says.

 _Castiel._ He wants to say. _My name is Castiel._

“Emmanuel,” he murmurs.

Tasha’s eyes widen, and Castiel can’t help but notice she abruptly withdraws her hand.

“You’re…”

Castiel feels the sting, the thorn of another person lost to his reputation.

“Yes,” he says flatly, standing. “But perhaps don’t believe all you read.”

He turns for the stairs, leaving her sitting alone by the fire.

“Good night, ma’am,” he says softly, before leaving her.

 

At the top of the stairs, he stops, seeing another figure posed motionless in the doorway. Winchester.

He doesn’t say anything, and Castiel isn’t in the mood for any more banter or insults. He sweeps past him without a word, heading to the room he’s sharing for the night. At least here no one is judging him for sharing a room with Anna, whispering behind hands about the impropriety of the act. Anna’s already asleep when he enters, and he changes quietly so as not to wake her.

The bed is hard and the sheets are rough and scratchy, but it’s more comfort than he’s allowed himself in the past couple of months. He closes his eyes and instantly feels his exhaustion start to drag him off into sleep.

Castiel’s last thought before he slips under is that perhaps Winchester might have been trying to escape. Castiel realizes he doesn’t give a damn.

 

x

 

“What the hell was that?”

“What?”

“You goddamn know what.”

 

Sam wheels in front of Ruby, placing himself right in her path. She comes to a halt, looking up at him, unimpressed.

“Please,” she says. “Way you were talkin’ to him, we woulda been there all afternoon and found out jack shit. My way was faster.”

She moves around him, striding towards where the horses are tied. Sam growls, stalking after her.

“No. We gonna do this, we have to lay down some ground rules.”

Ruby stops, narrowing her eyes at him.

“What the hell do you mean?”

Sam gestures between them.

“Us working together. As a team. _Your_ idea, I might add.”

Ruby purses her lips, but stays silent, letting him continue. Sam exhales slowly.

“He was just an innocent. He didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“Just tried to bribe you,” Ruby says, crossing her arms.

“But he ain’t no Emmanuel.”

Sam shakes his head.

“The only reason we should be pulling our guns is to protect ourselves. Or other people.” He grits his teeth. “Otherwise, it ain’t right.”

Ruby stares at him, chewing at her lip. But she isn’t arguing back, so Sam hopes that signals agreement.

She raises an eyebrow.

“You ever shot someone, Sam?”

Sam blinks, taken aback.

“No,” he says.

Ruby sniffs.

“It shows.”

 

She looks off to her right, her mind working it over. Then she heaves a sigh, looking back at him.

“Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

Sam sighs, relieved. Ruby jabs a finger at him.

“But if we lose the trail, that’s on you. And maybe I’ll decide working on my own was a better idea.”

She turns and goes to her horse, pulling herself up in the saddle. Sam grimaces, heading to his chestnut.

“Holdin’ you to that,” he mutters.

 

x

 

Castiel’s slightly surprised to see Winchester, sitting at the breakfast table the next morning. Tasha apparently had changed her mind, and let them stay to share a meal. There’s coffee, black and hot, thick slices of ham and a mess of eggs, which Gabriel wastes no time in attacking. Castiel moves slower, starting with the coffee, pouring it into a tin mug. Winchester is silent, eating quietly opposite him. He notes that the bandages from his wrists are gone, but there’s still raw red marks, evidence of the healing. Castiel feels that strange twist inside him again, a sort of residual anger at the men that attacked Winchester. They deserved what they got.

Winchester’s tiredly sipping his own coffee, and Castiel notes the scratch across the bridge of his nose, the cut on his lip. More injuries he never would’ve gotten if not for Castiel putting the cuffs on him in the first place.

Castiel takes a bitter swallow of coffee, letting its scent sting his nostrils.

 

“Brought you this.”

Tasha has returned, placing a couple newspapers on the table. She nods to them.

“Balthazar always asks for the coach schedule,” she says bluntly. “It’s in there.”

Tasha sweeps off without another word. Gabriel raises an eyebrow.

“Well. I suppose that’s our subtle invitation to leave.”

Anna has picked up the paper, turning the pages. She scans the articles and ads, furrowing her brow.

“Ain’t anything from Western Pacific scheduled ‘til next week.”

“Why does that matter?” The sheriff asks. Anna glances at Castiel, but they ignore his question. Gabriel leans over, snatching the paper from Anna’s hands.

“Hey!”

“Okay, we established your sordid revenge ain’t nearby. Let’s get to the good stuff.”

Anna smacks him upside the head, but Gabriel takes it without complaint, flipping back to the front page.

“Ahh,” he says. “Now _that’s_ what I was looking for.”

Anna folds her arms, looking cross.

“What?” She says irritably.

Gabriel turns the newspaper around, smiling wide.

“Fame and fortune, my young friend.”

There, under the words _Teller County Weekly Gazette,_ and the date—July 27th, 1876, are various headlines— _Bear Gulch, 1000 men sluicing, New Sensation,_ something about a local election, but down in the corner—

_Bank Robbers still at large—County Marshal called in._

Castiel sinks his head on his hand.

“Here we go,” he mutters.

Gabriel shakes out the paper with a flourish, clearing his throat. Winchester watches with him with a sort of detached amusement.

 

“The outlaw known as Emmanuel and his wild gang are still at large, after an escape from the Daviess county jail. Local sheriff Samuel Cox caught the notorious outlaw after the gang robbed the Daviess County Mutual Bank, his accomplices absconding with nearly seven thousand dollars,” Gabriel reads, putting on his best East Coast tone.

“That’s an old report,” Castiel says. Gabriel shrugs.

“It’s an old paper. Now. _If_ I may continue.”

He straightens, going back to the article.

“All had rejoiced, thinking one of the most violent criminals was finally off the streets. However, this celebration was short lived as Emmanuel broke from the jail not five hours later, shooting and killing the sheriff in his escape. The history of Daviess County has no blacker crime in its pages than the murder of Samuel Cox.”

Those green eyes flick over to Castiel’s. He avoids them, his stomach rolling.

“Not much is known about Emmanuel, also called the ‘Angel of Death’,” Gabriel continues, pitching his voice dramatically to read the nickname. “He has eluded authorities for nearly nine months, throwing the local communities into chaos and terror.”

“Whatever inkslinger wrote this is a hack,” Castiel mutters. “Try something new for once.”

“He has been seen in the company of a red-haired woman—Anna that’s you— (“Of course it’s me, you idiot—”)—and another man, described as portly and obnoxious.” Gabriel reads the last few words slowly, as if confused by their appearance on the page. Castiel snorts.

“I changed my mind. I’m starting to like this writer more and more.”

Gabriel scowls at him, and that’s enough license for Anna to jump in. She's grabbed one of the newer papers, her eyes quickly scanning the lines.

“Don’t see nothing about Raphael in here,” she says. “But there’s Alastair. Look.”

Winchester moves over to peer at the article, but Castiel is suddenly on edge.

“And does it say anything about the kid?” He whispers.

They all pause, looking up.

Anna bites her lip.

“No,” she says softly. “It doesn’t.”

She turns the paper over, looking at the next column.

“More about how they’re still lookin’, reward for capture...wait.” She narrows her eyes, pointing at bottom of the page. Castiel sets down his cup, looking at her.

“What?”

“Says they were visited personally by the Territory’s Marshal, Luke Morgan.”

Castiel stiffens. Anna continues, oblivious.

“The Marshal has been assigned by the governor to personally track down Emmanuel, citing his excellent history of service and record with violent outlaws. He is to bring the outlaw to the territory capital, dead or alive.”

She looks up at Castiel, an apprehensive look in her eyes. Castiel pushes back from the table.

“So?” He says, standing. “There’s always someone chasing after us.”

He glances at Gabriel, keeping his voice carefully even.

“If you’d like to get on the trail before it gets dark, I suggest you quit reading that nonsense and get moving.” He turns his back. “I’ll be outside.”

 

Emmanuel pushes back from the table, stalking up the stairs. The bedroom door slams, the sound echoing all the way downstairs.

“Well,” Gabriel mutters. “Ain’t that just peachy.”

“He’ll be sulking all day, now,” Anna says, sighing.

“We’ll find a nice murderer for him to shoot, how ‘bout that,” Gabriel says tonelessly.

The two of them stand, Gabriel a little clumsily, swinging his coat over his shoulders. Dean frowns, following them.

“What do you mean?” He asks. “Who’s Morgan?”

Gabriel glances back at him.

“Forget it, kid,” he says. “You don’t want to know.”

 

x

 

He pulls on his leather gloves, slowly, one at a time. The man in front of him is begging, babbling away about something.

“I don’t know anything, I swear. Please—”

He takes hold of the ends of the wire, pulling back slowly. The man cuts off with a pitiful gurgle as the wire tightens around his neck, his air supply cut off.

“Now, I would like to know how our friend Emmanuel manages to escape from a cell guarded by four of my best men, despite the fact he was hogtied and bloody and beaten six ways from Sunday.” He narrows his eyes, staring down at the man in front of him. “How do you figure that?”

The man chokes, the wire cutting into his throat.

“Tell me, Mr. Donley,” he continues. “Why’re they now buried in the dirt while you’re still living and breathing in front of me?”

He eases the wire just enough that Donley can speak, which he does in halting words.

“I—I seen him through the window,” he chokes out. “Buncha guys came around the corner—all—all hell broke loose. E-Emmanuel got the best of ‘em.” He tries to take a breath. “And that was after he killed that Raphael fella.”

He leans back in his chair, the front two legs pulling off the ground, the wire yanking tight around Donley’s throat. Donley shudders and wheezes, knees twitching on the hay-littered ground.

“Alright, my friend,” he murmurs. “With these keen observational skills of yours. You see which way they ride off?”

Donley’s eyes nearly bug out his head. He sets his chair back down, once again easing the wire.

“Y-yes, Marshal. Mr. M-morgan. Sir.”

Donley takes a shuddering breath.

“The last I seen, they was riding north. Towards the county seat.”

Luke Morgan releases one hand from the wire, the other placing his cigar back to his lips. With one hand he strikes a match on the rough wood of the chair, placing it to the cigar’s end. One, two breaths and it ignites, smoke wisping away into nothing.

 

“P-please,” Donley whispers, his lips bubbling. “I g-got a family.”

 

 

Morgan smiles. He grabs the wire with both hands, and pulls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quirly - A cowboy's word for a hand-rolled cigarette.


	8. The Marshal's Spy

 

True to Gabriel’s prediction, Emmanuel hadn't said much during their ride out of town. He was perfectly polite to Tasha, gentlemanly even, thanking her for the hospitality and for the meals. But once the door closed behind him, Emmanuel's mouth had settled into a hard line. He's only spoken once or twice, to give directions or to answer Anna’s questions.

 

Dean chews his lip. He'd been unsure of what to think of the outlaw since last night. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, really—but there was only so much of Gabriel's snoring he could tolerate. And then he heard Emmanuel and Tasha talking.

That first day, Dean had been disgusted with the three of them, the cavalier way they spoke of Butler, how he thought they'd killed the thief in cold blood. Dean had just been taken captive, so he supposes he was feeling a little resentful. But now...

Dean can't help but think that maybe Butler deserved what he got.

Tasha was a strong woman, no doubt about it. But truth was most folks who looked like her weren't taken seriously by the law, even though the war was over. Dean supposes Tasha wouldn't have gotten any help in finding her children, except from someone else who was despised by the law.

It's...noble. Almost.

Dean feels his carefully constructed world begin to break, the grip on what he knew to be right and wrong begin to shatter. The law was supposed to be good, supposed to protect people—that's why Dean became a goddamn sheriff in the first place, so that no one under his protection would have to suffer, to go through anything similar to what he and Sammy had gone through.

He feels a pang at the thought of his little brother. Dean wonders if Sam's back at Creede, trying to find out what happened to Dean. He's sure he got an earful from Pam. Dean almost smiles at the thought.

Hell, maybe Sam even jumped on a horse and tried to follow him. It's what Dean would've done.

He pauses, sitting up in his saddle. Christ. What if Sam  _did_ follow him? He wouldn't have known that it was Emmanuel who captured Dean, couldn't know even that Dean was a captive. Did Sam have a chance in hell of finding him? Half the men in the territory were looking for Emmanuel, seems like, so why would Sam succeed where they had failed?

Dean clenches his jaw. His brother had just the rash quality and streak of stubborn to do just that.

 

“Hold it.”

Dean’s dragged from his thoughts as Emmanuel pulls up in front of him, raising a hand. Dean brings his horse to a stop as well, frowning.

“What is it?”

Emmanuel shakes his head, keen eyes scanning the horizon.

“Gabriel,” he says tersely. “The glasses.”

Gabriel frowns, but digs through one of the saddlebags. He quickly finds a battered pair of binoculars, handing them to Emmanuel. He peers through them, eyes trained towards the east, the main road from Jefferson.

Dean squints in that direction. Their trail had taken them up on the ridge, to go through the mountain pass that lead to Canon City, and they can see the whole trail spread beneath them. Far off, there's a cloud of dust, slowly moving down the valley towards them.

Emmanuel lowers the binoculars.

“It's a coach,” he says.

“What?”

Gabriel pulls his horse up and around, snatching the binoculars from Emmanuel’s hands.

“There ain't no coach scheduled to come this way. We just saw in the paper.”

“Unless it's not scheduled,” Emmanuel says. His cool eyes track the coach's trail, a gloved hand pushing back his long black coat, resting on his pistol.

 

He snaps his reins, suddenly turning his horse away. Gabriel turns in his saddle, yelling after him.

“Hey! Where you going?”

Emmanuel canters down the ridge, back to where they passed a pen of dairy cows grazing.

He pulls open the gate and sends his horse at a gallop amongst the cows, who immediately start and scatter, lowing in a dissonant chorus. Emmanuel whips his reins back and forth, herding the cows with skill, corralling them towards the gate entrance.

“That crazy son of a bitch,” Anna hisses. “Come on!”

She digs her heels in, sending her horse galloping down the side of the valley, directly towards where the coach is coming. Gabriel curses and kicks his horse, and Dean has no choice but to follow.

The wind whips at his face, the breakneck speed at which they're racing making Dean’s blood sing. Then he hears it.

A great roaring noise, a thunderous pounding of hooves. Dean turns his head a fraction to see the entire herd stampeding in a panic, down into the valley.

 

The coach driver sees ‘em coming and desperately tries to pull up, but the cattle barge into its path, the horses rearing up in fright.

With an almighty crash, the coach tips over on its side, the horses breaking free of their harness and shaft, bolting off down the valley. The last few cattle straggle past—then the remaining men in the wagon start crawling out of its wreck, hands fumbling for their arms.

Anna disarms a few with two quick shots, before jumping down from her horse, knocking them out cold. Gabriel grabs the end of the driver’s shotgun, hitting another square in the nose—yanking the gun from his hands. He pulls the man to his knees, puts the rifle to his neck, and essentially pulls the man into a headlock with the barrel of his own gun. It's all over in a matter of seconds.

Dust dances through the air, the creak and groan from the coach as it settles, one of its wheels feebly spinning. The cattle and horses are long gone, the men out cold. Anna drags their bodies to the side before diving back into the coach, searching its insides. The words  _WESTERN PACIFIC RAILROAD_ are emblazoned on the side, in faded golden letters.

Emmanuel swings off his horse, striding through the settling dust. The scratches in his eyebrow have long since healed, leaving the thin stripes of a scar. With those piercing eyes underneath the black hat, he looks truly formidable.

 

“Four men to guard one coach.” He tsks, shaking his head. “Probably cheaper just to let me rob the damn thing.”

“Go to hell,” the man spits. Gabriel yanks the barrel tighter under his chin.

“Careful, now,” he says. “That’s Emmanuel you’re talkin’ to.”

The man’s face goes white. He looks at all of them, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“And your name is?”

The man is silent for a moment, seemingly chewing at his tongue.

“El-Ellsworth,” he says eventually.

“Ellsworth,” Emmanuel repeats. “Well, now that we’ve been introduced…”

He lowers himself down to meet the man’s eyes.

“Could it be that you kept this coach off the schedule because there's something in the back you didn't want us to find?”

“There ain’t anything,” Ellsworth says, eyes shifting back and forth. “I swear.”

Anna stalks over from the coach, holding something in her hands. Emmanuel turns.

“Nothing? You sure?”

Anna throws down a box at the man’s feet, a metal thing with a heavy lock on the front.

“What’s that?” She snarls at him.

The man struggles vainly, his face pale.

“Never seen it before in my life,” he says thickly, licking his lips. “Now, boys—”

The force of Anna’s punch sends Gabriel staggering back as well, and the man falls to the ground, howling in pain. Emmanuel darts forward, seizing Anna by the shoulder. She pulls against him, fuming.

“You son of a bitch,” she growls. 

“Anna," Emmanuel says sharply.

He grips her arm, staring her down. She glares back at Emmanuel, murder in her eyes. Dean is frozen. He’s got no clue what’s set Anna off, where her fury has come from. Emmanuel is still, his voice low and calm.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, so low that Dean almost doesn’t hear. “We got him. We got him now. But we got to take it easy.”

Anna glares at him for a moment more, than rips her arm out of Emmanuel's grasp, shoving his hand away. She turns back to the man writhing on the ground.

“You.”

 

Anna grabs Ellsworth's lapels, hauling him up. He comes limply, lip wobbling.

“You’ll keep your tongue to tell us where that coach was headed. I promise you that.”

With one hand Anna seizes his throat, and with the other, she reaches into her coat and draws out a switchblade.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t take something else.”

The man wheezes, fighting against Anna’s hold. She examines his face, flicking the blade open with a sharp sound.

“How about your eyes?” She says sweetly. “I don’t think you need two.”

“Okay—wait, _wait_.”

Ellsworth holds up his hands—or tries to, best he can manage—scrambling to get the words out.

“I don’t have the key.” Seeing Gabriel’s eyeroll he becomes more emphatic, shaking his head.

“I don’t. I _don’t._ Just was supposed to deliver it. To Ouray.”

Emmanuel cocks his head.

“The train depot.”

The man nods his head nervously.

“The railroad’s tr-transferring a big payload, I dunno—but this—this ain’t supposed to be on the records.” He swallows, looking all around. “Supposed to go to some big important fella,” he says. “Some head honcho.”

Anna presses the blade to Ellsworth's throat, shoving him back.

“Was his name Zachariah?” She hisses.

The man whimpers, and she snarls, digging the blade into his skin.

“ _Tell me!_ Was his name Zachariah?”

“Y-yes! Yes. Zachariah. I th-think so.”

Anna is frozen for a moment, then drops him like a sack of potatoes. The man hits the ground and immediately grabs at his throat, coughing. Anna whips around, fire in her eyes.

“Zachariah,” she breathes.

 

_Zachariah._

 

Castiel thought they would never find him. God knows they’d been searching long enough. Ever since Anna had marched up to Castiel, that day at the Roost, and demanded that she be allowed to join them. Castiel had taken one look at the skinny teenager, with her hand-me-down clothes and fierce eyes, and just went back to rolling his cigarette.

“Don’t think so, kid.”

He hadn’t expected Anna to stalk across the bar, yank Gabriel’s pistol from his belt and shoot the tobacco tin right out of his hands.

She had been a tight-lipped one on the trail, at first. Much like Winchester. Moody, nose in the air. The kind of arrogance that only comes from real skill. One thing she voluntarily shared was that she had practiced, shooting cans off the fence back at her farm when she was a kid.

First two names she gave were Raphael and Virgil, then her final target, Zachariah. The man who had personally held the negotiations with her father for the family farm, and signed his death warrant when he wouldn’t budge. Anna said they all worked for the railroad, and that she wanted them all dead.

Everything within Castiel wanted to scream no. But something about Anna’s temper, and her desperation to get revenge for a wound too fresh felt all too familiar.

 

“You.”

 

Castiel glares at the man.

“What time is this train leaving?”

Ellsworth shakes his head.

“Five o’ clock,” he says. “Two days from now.”

“Excellent.”

Castiel looks back at the lopsided coach. He strides over, yanking the middle bar of the harness from the twisted remains of its front wheels. He turns, holding it out.

“Gabriel,” he says. “You do the honors?”

Terror seizes the man, who doubles over, immediately starting to grovel, mumbling excuse after excuse why they shouldn’t kill him, why he could be useful to them, how he—

 

Gabriel lifts his arms up, and with a great swing, he brings the metal bar down—

And knocks the lock off the box, the metal clang echoing around them. The lock falls off into the dirt, next to the cowering man.

Gabriel looks down at Ellsworth.

“Oh, please. Like I’d waste that effort on you.”

The man remains, quivering, not moving from his curled position.

Gabriel drops to his knees, opening up the box. Castiel moves to his side, taking off his hat, wondering if his eyes are deceiving him.

“Jesus Christ—”

Winchester moves forward too, craning his neck.

“What? What’d you find?”

Gabriel digs his hand into the box, hand coming up with a spread of banknotes, all brand new and crisp. Castiel kneels, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

Winchester lets out a low whistle.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen that much money in my life,” he murmurs.

Castiel knows he ain’t lying. It’s close to a record for him too.

Only Anna seems unfazed by the treasure they’ve uncovered.

“It’s only foldin’ money,” she says sharply. “There are better things.”

 _Like revenge?_ Castiel thinks bitterly.

 

He stands, wiping the dust slowly in his hands. The three of them—Anna, Gabriel, Winchester too—all of ‘em are staring.

“You got that look in your eye,” Gabriel says, tilting his head. “What are you planning?”

 

Castiel slowly places his hat back on his head, a smile touching his lips.

“Boys and girls, we’re robbing us a train.”

 

x

 

Luke Morgan sits back, a heavy silver coin in his palm. He flips it, over and over, slowly in his hand, staring at the wall opposite.

“What I want to know,” he says coolly. “Is why my people keep dying.”

Abby and Uriel exchange a look.

“Raphael,” Morgan mutters. “Alastair. Friends of mine. With deep pockets.” He looks up. “It’s like someone is...targeting me.”

Abby crosses her arms, looking at him.

“That might not be too far off.”

Luke turns his pale eyes on her, turning the coin over in his fingers.

“How so?”

“The father of that injured boy,” Abby says. “The one you spoke to for the paper. Swears it was Emmanuel he saw.”

Luke stills at the mention of the name.

“Bullshit," he says finally.

Abby shakes her head.

“He’s says he’s certain. And we got someone else who say’s she’s confident of how to find Emmanuel. Says she’s been tracking him since a town called Creede.”

“Who?” Luke demands. His clenches his fist around the coin, the edges digging into his palm.

Abby pauses for a moment, her lips pressed tightly together.

“One of the deputies,” she says stiffly. “I told you about her. The….persistent one.”

Luke raises an eyebrow.

“Well,” he says. “Send her in, then.”

 

Abby clenches her jaw for a moment, then nods.

 

Uriel and Abby leave the room, and not long after, a knock sounds on the door.

“Come in.”

 

In walks a small woman, hair long and dark. Luke flips the coin in his palm.

“And who are you?” He asks.

She smiles.

“My name is Ruby, Marshal. I have some information that might interest you.”

 

x

 

Sam looks over the crumpled bills in his hands, then tucks them away, looking around. Ruby claimed Teller County wasn’t a huge draw for thieves and the like, but you could never be too careful.

He waits impatiently as the woman in front of him finishes up paying. The teller nods his head and smiles.

“Thank you, Miss Banes. See you soon.”

She waves him away with a grumpy hand, but takes her leave. Sam steps up, and the smile on the teller’s face decidedly vanishes.

“Yes?” He says rudely.

Sam pushes the scrap of paper towards him.

“Need to send this to Creede. Through Blackwater, that’s the nearest town with a telegraph station.”

The man purses his lips but takes the message, counting the words.

“That’ll be one dollar, nine cents,” he says.

Sam counts out the exact amount and places it on the counter, not bothering to stay for the teller's confirmation. Ruby’s waiting for him.

 

They’d been tracing Emmanuel’s path through the North. With the recent string of grisly murders, Emmanuel might as well had been leaving them a bright red trail to follow. After months of barely a whisper or a trace of the man, this was unusual, to say the least. The first was a man named Raphael, who apparently exchanged some heated words with the outlaw, and got shot simply for raising his voice. Four of the Marshal’s men captured him after that—but again, Emmanuel had somehow managed to twist out of captivity and escape, leaving all of them dead.

Then Alastair, bounty hunter. Figures Ruby would hear about this one, bounty hunters in one area all tend to know one another—and Alastair was considered one of the best. Had trained with the Marshal himself before pursuing more lucrative ventures.

Ruby said she had a contact in nearby Teller that could tell them more about the victims, and now Sam was on his way back to meet her at the local hotel.

 

He steps off into the main street, stopping as a carriage rides past, kicking up dirt from its wheels. He can only hope Pam is getting his messages. The price had gone up since the last time—Sam’s not sure if it’s the remoteness of the town or that the teller overcharged him because he was a stranger. Both are equally plausible. Sam thought he’d start seeing some hospitality—especially in the big towns, where travelers and visitors were more common. He catches sight of himself in a shop window as he passes, and grimaces. Well. That might be the reason.

Sam stops and asks a man sitting on the front porch of his shop where he might be able to clean up. The man leans back, puffing his pipe, and tells him there’s a barber and bath house down the street, underneath the Oswatomie Bank.

Fifty cents for the bath, an extra twenty for the soap and towel—but an hour later Sam’s on his way back to the inn, feeling better than he has in days—maybe weeks. The dirt and grime of hard riding everyday had been wearing on him, and while Sam has always made sure his hands were clean for his practice, he never was so picky about the rest of him. But the darkening bristles are gone from his face, shaved away, and he feels like himself again. Sam wonders how long it’ll last.

 

Ruby does a double-take when he steps through the doors. Sam thinks it’s the first time he’s seen her ruffled.

“Well,” she says, leaning back and running her eyes up and down his body. “Don’t you clean up nice.”

Sam ignores her comment, even though it sends a strange tingle running down his spine.

“What did he say? Your contact?”

Ruby drops her glass on the table, raising an eyebrow.

“Straight to business is it then? Fine.”

She pulls out a chair and pats it, gesturing for him to sit. Sam does, folding his hands on the table. Ruby starts pulling things from within her coat.

“Well, you remember our dead friend Raphael? Travel receipts, telegrams, all from him,” she says, tossing them on the table. Sam grabs the closest one, his eyes quickly scanning the cramped words.

“From what I can tell, he was one of the higher ups for the Western Railroad. Worked for a man named Zachariah Adler.”

Sam looks up.

“And?”

“And that’s it. Couldn’t tell me no more than that. But it did seem awful suspicious.” Ruby quickly shucks her overcoat, throwing it over the back of her chair. The vest buttoned over her dark shirt is slightly open at the neck, and she relieves herself of a few more buttons in the musty heat of the bar. Sam drags his eyes away.

“He gave me this.” She flips over one of the papers, tapping it with a finger. “A letter detailing the sale of the farm of a Richard Milton, twenty acres. After the grasshopper plagues, it was near useless, and the railroad wanted it. When he up and died, they got the land, built a track right through it.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow.

“So?”

“So—”

Ruby turns another sheet over, pointing to an old grainy photograph stuck to the other side.

“His daughter’s name was Anna.”

Sam’s next question dies in his throat. There, in black and white, a girl who looks barely sixteen years old.

It’s the same girl from the wanted poster Ruby showed him. The girl who matches the description of every person they’ve asked from here to Creede.

One of the outlaws riding with Emmanuel.

Sam looks up sharply.

“You think…”

Ruby places her hand on the table.

“If anything's going to point us in Emmanuel's direction, it’s going to be her, and the railroad. Makes sense she’d be gunning for the man who signed her father’s death warrant.” Her mouth tightens into a thin line. “I know I’d do the same.”

Sam looks up at her puzzled.

“You don’t know—”

“Please, Sam, don’t try to paint this any other way,” Ruby says dismissively. “The railroad wants the land, and Milton is in the way. Then he suddenly dies, without any record as to how.” She raises an eyebrow. “Even you can’t spin that to where everyone comes out the good guy.”

Sam grits his teeth. He doesn’t know why Ruby keeps assuming his innocence—like he hasn’t seen the world for all its faults and terrors. Sam just doesn’t want to assign blame that he has no authority to give.

“We can’t know for sure unless we check it out,” he says tightly.

Ruby looks him over, one delicate eyebrow raised.

“You’re right.”

Quick as a flash, she sweeps everything off the table away and out of sight—within seconds it’s tucked away again, and she’s standing, headed towards the bar. “I’ll get supplies.”

 

Sam frowns, confused, watching as Ruby signals the bartender.

Money exchanges hands, and Sam raises an eyebrow when the bartender hands her an entire bottle of amber liquid.

 

Ruby turns, beckons a finger, and Sam, after a brief moment of hesitation, follows her up the stairs.

 

x

 

When they’d rented the rooms, it had been from a very stuffy old woman who had made very clear that they would take separate rooms. Sam had no issue with it at the time, as that had been their understood arrangement so far. But when Ruby sweeps into her room and holds the door open, beckoning him to follow, Sam enters without a second thought.

Behind him, Ruby shuts the door and locks it.

 

The room is mostly bare, a standard inn's room, bed, lamp on a side table, a basin tucked in the corner with a cracked mirror hanging above—and a small desk, two chairs pushed against it. Ruby spreads out her map on the desk, placing the bottle of whiskey on one corner to keep it flat. She places two glasses on top next, indicating the chair behind Sam. He sits, running a hand through his hair as she starts talking, pouring out a decent measure in both glasses.

“You started here,” Ruby says, tapping Creede. Then she takes a deep swig of her whiskey, pointing again. “Then up, past Blackwater, past Ridgeville to Cicero, where I found ya.”

Sam pulls his glass towards him.

“I remember vividly.”

Ruby looks at him with a wicked grin, before her eyes flick back to the map.

“We know Emmanuel’s been here and here,” she says, indicating the two cities where the bodies were found. “And the Western Pacific has a depot in Ouray, near Clayton.” She runs her tongue over her teeth. “I say we head there tomorrow.”

“You sure we’ll find something?” Sam asks.

“I’m sure,” she says.

 

Ruby takes another long sip, tipping her head back. Sam follows the line of her throat.

He quickly turns his head to the side, before returning to the glass and downing it in one quick swallow. The harsh taste stings his mouth.

Ruby looks at him for a long moment, but then she stands, sweeping away from him again. She rolls up her long sleeves, exposing her tanned skinned to the jumping candlelight.

“What’s your brother like, Sam?” She asks softly. “You haven’t told me much about him.”

 

She starts unpinning her hair, shaking it out into long dark waves. Sam lifts the glass to his lips. The thought of Dean tangles his gut, but the whiskey seems to slice through the knots, loosening him with every sip. Focusing on Emmanuel has allowed him to avoid thinking of Dean, and the worry of whether he’s still alive.

“He’s a good man.” Sam inhales deeply. “One of the best.”

Ruby glances at him over her shoulder, smiling.

“Runs in the family,” she says.

Sam dips his head, staring at the golden liquid swirling in his glass.

“He’s...he’s all I have,” he stumbles out. “After our parents died, I…”

He stops, closing his eyes. For a moment the world reels and dances, his stomach giving an anxious lurch. It loosens his lips and Sam finds himself spilling, thoughts he's kept locked up for years.

“We ain’t that close,” he mumbles. “As we used to be. Guess...guess something’s always been missing.”

Ruby returns to her chair at the table, sinking into it slowly.

“But you’re looking for him. He knows that. Right?”

Sam swallows.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Dean knows I'd never give up on him.”

 

There's a long moment where both of them are silent, breathing quietly in the room. Sam’s limbs are heavy, his thoughts slow, but something within him feels sharp and clear. Something attuned to Ruby, sensitive to her every move, every drawn-out look.

“We’ll find Emmanuel,” she says. “And we’ll give him hell for what he’s done to your brother.”

The last words are decided, full of fire. Sam admires that about her, in a way.

Ruby smiles, something in it sly.

“I know Ouray is the key. It's the center to all of this. Raphael working for Adler, and ending up dead. The coach belonging to the Pacific getting ransacked. Emmanuel's the connection."

Sam pauses.

“What coach?”

 

Ruby’s composure flickers for just a moment.

“I didn’t tell you?” She hastily refills her glass, shrugging. “Something I...saw in the paper. Happened outside of town. Figured they must be connected.”

“You—”

Sam sucks in a breath.

“You should have told me,” he says, almost a growl.

Ruby is still for a moment, then she moves forward, filling his glass.

“Sorry, Sam,” she says, almost sweetly. “It slipped my mind. Honest.”

She moves her chair slightly closer to Sam's, resting her hand on the table just shy of his arm.

All of Sam's instincts tell him Ruby is lying. The irrational part of him is saying that it really doesn’t matter—all that matters is how close her thigh is to touching his own.

 

Sam pushes back from the table, taking his glass with him. He takes an angry swallow, and the room swims slightly before him, his hands unsteady.

“I don’t understand you,” he mutters. Ruby frowns.

“Excuse me?”

Sam turns, putting his arms out to the side.

“What do you want from me?” He asks. Ruby raises an eyebrow.

“A little patience, for one thing.”

Sam snarls in anger, turning around and finishing the second—third? drink.

“We’re never going to find him.”

Ruby stands.

“Just give it time, Sam.”

She looks at him, her dark body blurring slightly in the candlelight.

“I know it’s hard,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

Sam stalks back over to the table, snatching up the bottle.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ruby places a hand on his wrist, and he resists the urge to throw her off. There is something in her eyes, something genuine. Almost like pity. Almost like worry.

“I know what it feels like to lose someone,” she says softly.

“Dean’s not lost,” Sam says, trembling.

But he lets Ruby remove his hand from the bottle, lets her slide in front of him, between him and the table.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, reaching up to touch his temple. Sam intercepts her, grabbing her wrist.

“Uh uh,” he says, his tongue thick as molasses. He knows he’s got her trapped against the edge of the table, but Sam shakes his head, a smile edging on a grimace splitting his lips.

“Don’t,” he says.

Ruby stares at him, her mouth slightly parted, moving forward. Sam grits his teeth, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Half the time I don’t know whether you’re going to help me or kill me,” he snarls.

Ruby pushes back against his hands, her hot breath brushing his lips.

“Doesn’t that make it better?” She whispers.

 

Ruby grabs Sam's hands and places them on her hips, warm, soft.

“What are you doing?” Sam hushes out.

She rubs against him like a cat, continuing to push Sam's hands up, slipping them under the edge of her shirt to touch her.

“When it’s bad?” She murmurs, her lips catching on his. “When it’s wrong?”

She whispers the words into his skin, and Sam fights to hold himself back, but he can feel himself losing the battle.

“You scared?” She breathes.

 

Sam wrenches his hands from her grasp and takes Ruby's face in his hands, pressing his lips to hers. The first kiss is sharp and hot, and tastes of whiskey.

Ruby isn’t hesitant. Within seconds she's deepened the kiss, sliding forward against him, arms going around his neck. All at once it's like a rope has been snapped—Sam shoves his glass aside and his hands immediately go to her waist, grabbing at her hips. He lifts Ruby and she gasps—Sam placing her onto the edge of the table and slotting himself in between her legs.

He can't deny he’s wanted this ever since he saw Ruby in that bar, something dangerous about her, a beauty that bewitched and drew Sam in from the very beginning. He grips at her hair, she bites back against his lips, nails digging into the back of his neck.

“Sam,” she whispers. “ _Sam."_

His hands are clumsy at first, but soon grow more steady, and he sets about pulling the shirt from her body, baring naked skin. Ruby folds back against him, hands grabbing, pulling at his own clothes, and she kisses him throughout, until Sam drops his shirt somewhere to the side, the touch between them heated.

There's barely any talking between them—she doesn't need it, Ruby only murmurs his name in his ear—and it lights a fire in Sam’s blood, burns away the fear and the worry, and for a moment, he forgets, loses himself in Ruby’s dark kisses and heady eyes.

Sam shifts his hands underneath her legs, hiking her up in his lap. He brings Ruby over to the bed and she rids the rest of their clothes, pulling him down on top of her.

The sheets are rough and scratchy as he pulls her legs around his, kisses down her stomach and brings his mouth down on her until she cries out, arching back, skin glowing in the flickering light of the lamp. Ruby knots her fingers in his hair, shoving back against him, and he growls back—it’s as wild as a fight and twice as exhilarating.

She flips Sam over onto his back and straddles him, shoving him back against the bed. There’s a moment where Ruby has to gasp, clutch at the back of his neck as they start to rock against each other. Sam hisses, gripping at her hips, her arms, pressing up into her until they’re both crying out and falling back, the only thing in the room the sound of heated breath.

Her dark hair spreads across the pale sheets, lovely and tangled, the sweet tang of sweat in the air. The curve of Ruby's back presses up against Sam's front, and he buries his face in her hair, losing himself in her warmth.

 

When Sam blinks his eyes open the next morning, he feels cold, despite the sun streaming through the windows.

 

Ruby is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Grasshopper Plague of 1874](https://www.kshs.org/kansapedia/grasshopper-plague-of-1874/12070) \- An invasion of insects that left farmers devastated after the grasshoppers ate crops, wool from live sheep, and even the clothes from peoples' backs.


	9. The Train Bandits of Ouray, or, Dean's Decision

Gabriel grabs Emmanuel’s arm, hissing in his ear.

“Are you insane?”

“Not last time I checked.”

“I thought we were takin’ him to Canon City.”

“That can wait.”

“Then what the hell are we gonna do with him?” Gabriel seethes, glaring at Dean.

Emmanuel glances briefly over his shoulder, his face unreadable.

“He’s coming.”

 

Emmanuel shrugs his arm out of Gabriel’s grip and heads to his horse, tightening the saddle. Gabriel follows him, turning red.

“Why? The amount of money on that train…It’s worth way more than he is, why are we even bothering—“

“No arguments, Gabriel,” Emmanuel says sharply. “I said he’s coming.”

Dean doesn't speak. Anna is quiet next to him, eyes tracking Emmanuel.

“Why do we care what happens to him?” Gabriel is hissing now, furious. “We should just cut him loose—“

Emmanuel ignores him, mounting his horse and starting off into a trot. Gabriel scrambles to follow, still arguing.

“What is he gonna do, help? Most likely botch everything, you seriously think…”

 

Gabriel and Emmanuel's bickering continues the entire way out of Teller County. Dean settles back to ride next to Anna, trying to ignore the steadily rising voices. Anna is silent, watching the skyline with her eagle eyes. To be fair, Dean’s not contributing much to the conversation either.

He twists his hands on his reins.

“How long you had captives before?” Dean asks, looking straight ahead.

Anna looks over at him.

“When you done this other times, I mean,” Dean clarifies.

Anna shrugs.

“Couple days at most."

“Oh.”

 

Dean knows it’s been almost three weeks.

 

 

 

They stop not long after, just on the outskirts of a town, with a rotted wooden sign proclaiming it _Clayton, pop. 326._ Dean sees the horses up ahead of him turn, Emmanuel’s eyes searching him out.

“Sheriff,” he says. “You’re with Gabe.”

Gabriel is making no effort to hide his thoughts about that, glaring at Dean with a furious malevolence. Dean lifts his chin, meeting the stare. 

“Anna, with me," Emmanuel continues. "We’re going to need a few things."

The outlaw looks to Gabriel.

“You know the plan. Six at most.”

Gabriel glares back at him, arms crossed.

“Still don’t understand why he’s gotta come,” he says, indicating Dean with a jerk of his head.

“Just do it, Gabe,” Emmanuel says impatiently. “Besides.”

He looks over at Dean, one corner of his mouth crooking up into a smile.

“He might surprise you,” he says.

 

Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. Emmanuel makes a soft noise to his horse and turns her nose southward, Anna falling in next to him. It isn’t long until they’re gone, back over the rolling hills and out of sight. Dean glances at Gabriel.

“And us? Where are we going?”

Gabriel just throws him a dirty look, and turns towards Clayton, kicking his heels in his horse’s side. He starts off at a trot, not looking back. Dean sighs, and follows.

 

“You know, I would be more helpful if I knew what we’re doing.”

Silence. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Or not. Guess I’ll just be winging it.”

“Oh no,” Gabriel cuts in. “You’re not gonna even talk.”

He jabs a finger in Dean’s direction.

“ _I_ do the talking.”

“Believe me, I know,” Dean mutters.

“Look,” Gabriel says sharply. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t even be here.”

“Oh good, we’re agreed,” Dean says. “Why don’t you drop me back home?”

Gabriel glares at him.

 

The streets are nearly deserted. They pass maybe two or three people on their way in towards town, all who eye them with open hostility. Gabriel purses his lips.

“Friendly place,” he mutters.

They ride a little ways further, before Gabriel calls them to a halt in front of an old inn. The door is hanging slightly off its hinges, paint peeling from the sign that reads _Lafitte’s._ But there’s yellow light coming from inside, and the general sound of food and talk.

Dean and Gabriel tie their horses to a weathered hitching post and make their way up the steps to the porch surrounding the inn, passing by a man passed out drunk in a chair, his coat hanging on the back, sleeves just barely brushing the ground. Gabriel pauses, eyeing the coat. It’s a nice one, leather and well-worn. He looks at his own, stained and ragged from the past couple months on the trail.

After a moment, Gabriel pulls the ratty coat from his shoulders and swaps it out for the drunk man’s, slipping it on, smiling as he sees the fit. He places his old coat back where the original one was, even pushing forward the drunkard’s head a little bit. The man falls back into the chair, letting out a loud snore.

Gabriel examines the edge of his sleeves, looking pleased with himself. He looks up to see Dean staring.

“What?” He says innocently, hooking his thumbs on his new lapels.

Dean huffs out a breath.

 

Gabriel grins, turning on his heel towards the inn doors. He pushes them aside, stepping boldly into the room. He tips up his hat, puts on his best smile, clearing his throat loudly.

“I need six men.”

 

Nobody looks up.

Dean coughs.

 

There’s a few men playing at cards, some grouped around the bar, chatting with the innkeep. Gabriel purses his lips.

“I said,” he calls a little louder. “I need six men.”

One of the people at the end of the bar turns, eyes quickly sizing up Gabriel, then Dean behind him.

“I’ll bet,” he says, smirking.

 

Gabriel glares at the man, then steps closer to the bar, speaking to the rest of them.

“We’re hitting the Pacific Flyer, boys,” he says, smiling smugly.

  
“The train?”

The bartender has looked up, an incredulous look on his face.

“You’re outta your mind,” he drawls, voice twanging with the accent of the South. It puts Dean instantly on edge.

“Benny,” Gabriel says in a cajoling tone. “C’mon. We’re old friends at this point, surely—”

“And who are you again?” Benny says, squinting.

Gabriel twists his mouth, smiling sourly.

 

“Isn't this what you did?” Dean whispers. “Get people to come to the sideshows so you could rob ‘em blind?”

“It's a little more difficult when you're convincing folks to join a robbery,” Gabriel hisses back.

 

The bartender speaks up again, spitting into a rag before wiping down a dirty glass.

“The Pacific line hires lawmen by the dozen,” he says. “You'd be crazy to try and rob it.”

“Well, some say Emmanuel’s crazy,” Gabriel replies coolly. “But for sure he ain't one thing, and that's a coward.”

 

A thick blanket of silence drops over the bar at the mention of Emmanuel’s name. The men have stopped their game, smoke curling from still cigarettes, every eye on Gabriel. He cocks an eyebrow.

 

“Now that I have your attention,” he says. “Let's talk terms.”

 

“Hold on,” Benny says, but his tone no longer has the sure confidence of before. “Ain't no one agreed yet.”

But Dean is scanning the other faces, and sees an eager gleam from some of them—there's a woman just to Benny’s left, wearing a dark hat and a pistol on her hip, who’s watching Gabriel with a sort of veiled intrigue. A dark man stands next to her, their features eerily similar. Related, Dean guesses.

But he can tell Benny’s is the voice of the authority in this place. They won't get any of them, unless Benny is on board.

Dean clears his throat, stepping forward.

“I’ll fight you for it.”

 

There’s a brief silence, then scoffs and laughter break out. The bartender laughs the loudest of them all, head tipping back. Then he catches sight of Dean’s face.

“You’re serious,” he says, sobering slightly. He scratches his chin, looking Dean over.

“You look a little familiar,” he says slowly. “What’s yer name?”

Dean straightens, standing a little taller.

“Winchester.”

“Hmm.” Benny twists his lips. “I think I hearda you.”

Dean rolls his eyes, thinking of the name that decorates nearly half of the guns in the West.

“Most people have,” he mutters.

 

Benny crosses his arms.

“Look kid,” he says. “I might be a rustler and a thief, but I ain’t no murderer.”

“Poker, then,” Dean says, indicating the table. “Play you for it.”

Gabriel edges up next to him, hissing.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Bargaining,” Dean whispers back.

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” Gabriel spits. “Shut up and let me do the talking.”

 

He elbows Dean out of the way, slipping back into his suave tone.

“Look, my friend here is...new. A little impatient—reads too many dime novels. We’re all adults here.”

“Shoot ‘im, Benny,” someone says.

Gabriel sets his jaw. “Helpful.”

“Not necessary.”

 

The dark-haired woman has stood up, moving closer. She looks Dean up and over, crossing her arms.

“You ride with Emmanuel?” She asks.

Gabriel opens his mouth, but she silences him with a look, before turning sharp eyes back on Dean.

Dean swallows.

“I do,” he says clearly.

The woman smiles.

“Well. We’ve been looking for him. Apparently we owe him a thank you. But as you imagine, he’s been...hard to find.” She taps one finger against her arm. “This might be our one shot.”

She turns back to the bar, raising an eyebrow.

“What do you think, Max?”

The man behind her lifts his head, looking the pair of them up and down, before his face splits into a sly grin.

“Oh, most definitely.”

The woman whips out her hand, flashing Dean a smile.

“Alicia Banes.”

 

Dean conceals his surprise, instead accepting the hand.

“Winchester and Emmanuel,” Alicia says, letting go after a brief moment. “C’mon, Lafitte. You can’t pass that up.”

She glances back to the burly man behind the bar, matching his scowl with a teasing grin.

“Gotta move on from banks sometime, huh?”

 

After a moment, Benny huffs, throwing his rag on the bar.

“Fine,” he says, then jabs a finger at Dean. “Still holding you to that poker game, Winchester.”

Dean smiles.

 

x

 

A few hours later finds them in a shallow dell near the tracks, a couple miles out from Clayton, opposite a line of outlaws.

Dean goes down the line with his eyes, trying to recall all the names.

 

First, Alicia, and Max. Twins, they had said, fairly new names in Colorado Territory—but the bounty hunters’ new favorites, due to their ripoff of the Teller County Bank. On the ride to the tracks, Dean had found himself next to Max, who recounted the entire story in thrilling detail, his sister on the other side, shaking her head. Then Benny—who Gabriel had described as ‘cattle terrorizer of the South’—he's been in the West for nearly a decade, and is one of the biggest rustlers in the territory. With him came two others, Desmond, who Dean has yet to hear speak a word—and one named Martin Creaser, a thin, frail-looking man who starts every time someone says his name. The last one to the right, Benny introduces as Cesar, dynamite expert.

“Expert?” Alicia mutters under her breath. “He knocked himself out last week.”

“He’ll blow that safe inside the train all the way to hell,” Benny says surely, crossing his arms. Cesar grins, his teeth stark white against his sun-browned skin. Gabriel mirrors the smile.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the train robbery.”

 

Talk slows after that. They all drift into groups, Max and Alicia talking quietly off by the horses, Desmond standing wordlessly next to Benny as Gabriel talks a mile a minute. Creaser keeps sneaking sips from a flask inside his coat, eyes whizzing back and forth. Dean has been assigned to stay back and keep an eye on the horses, as well as to make sure Cesar gets on the train once it’s stopped. He checks the horses’ saddles, tightening a few of the buckles, trying very hard not to think how he was accepted into the plan alongside the other outlaws, without question.

 

“And what do you do?”

 

Dean looks up. Max Banes has sauntered up to him, one hand in his pocket. He leans back slightly against the tree they tied the horse to, looking at Dean.

Dean clears his throat, straightening.

“I’m, uh—the guy who watches the horses.”

“Really?” Max raises an eyebrow, eyes dancing. “Seems like a waste.”

Dean clears his throat, cheeks flushing. Max pulls a cigarette from a tin from his coat, lighting it with the hiss of a match.

“Figured we’ll need all the men we can get,” he says, winking.

 

Dean’s not stupid—he knows exactly what Max is implying—but Dean still finds himself at a loss for words. It’s always been like this with men. Dean’s never had the same silver tongue he seems to have around women, instead feeling awkward and fumbling.

And Dean can’t help but appreciate Max's lean, sturdy build, just about his same height—and those hazel eyes, fixed on his own.

_Hazel._

  

Max holds out his cigarette tin towards Dean, a clear invitation.

 

Dean bites his lip, something staying his tongue.

 

They’re interrupted by the sound of approaching hooves. Emmanuel, followed by Anna, horses slowly making their way down the slight slope. Emmanuel dismounts and turns to the look at the motley group around them, blue eyes glinting with an eager sort of flame.

Max glances at Dean—who quickly averts his eyes, turning back to the saddle he had been working on. Max lets out a soft sound.

“Ah,” he says. “That complicates things.”

 

Dean doesn’t answer, retightening the same strap for the third time, his ears hot. He focuses on the leather underneath his hands, listening hard as Emmanuel greets those he knows, and as Gabriel introduces those he doesn’t.

“Heard we owe you a favor," Max says.

Dean’s hands pause.

“Not at all,” Emmanuel’s deeper rumble answers. “I was happy to do it.”

“Still.”

Dean turns, watching. Max’s face is honest and sincere, his sister mirroring him.

“You got that money to her safely and didn't ask for a dime. That's rare out here.” Max sticks out his hand. “We can't thank you enough.”

Emmanuel gives him a small smile, taking Max's hand with a firm grip.

“Next time, choose a more trustworthy friend,” he says.

Max’s face darkens slightly.

“We’ll never make that mistake again.”

Emmanuel and Max release hands, stepping back.

 

“I'll admit, I'm a little surprised to see you. Thought you'd be long gone from Colorado by now," Emmanuel says.

Alicia shakes her head.

“Nah. Been laying low at Benny’s. We'd been thinking about moving on, but then—” She turns, smiling at Dean. “Your friend Winchester here convinced us to rob a train.”

“Is that so?”

Emmanuel turns those piercing eyes on Dean, and Dean stares back, unblinking. Emmanuel always stares too much, but Dean is just as guilty, unable to tear himself away from that heavy gaze.

“More like you heard Emmanuel’s name and roped me into this,” Benny says grumpily, interrupting the moment. “Still not sure if this is a good idea.”

“Benny,” Emmanuel says, turning and gripping his hand briefly. “It's been too long.”

 

Benny jerks his head at the three men behind him, naming them quickly.

“Creaser, Desmond, Cesar. Cesar will crack that safe for ya, no problem.”

Cesar grins wickedly, rubbing his hands together.

“You point it out, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Emmanuel acknowledges the three of them, then looks to Benny.

“You know the plan?”

Benny nods, squinting at the sky.

“When’s it comin’?” He tilts his head, checking the angle of the sun. “Should be about time.”

Gabriel and Anna come up to the group, Gabriel fixing his hat on his head.

“We better get ridin’.”

 

Emmanuel looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Nice coat,” he says.

Gabriel preens.

“Thanks.”

 

Emmanuel snorts, shaking his head.

“Heard Winchester did your job for you," he says.

Gabriel’s smile vanishes, replaced by grumpy chagrin.

“Yes, he helped,” he says impatiently. “Barely. A little.”

He gestures. “But we got our six men. Together there’s nine of us.”

“Ten,” Dean says.

“You’re staying here,” Gabriel says cattily.

 

The other outlaws start moving towards their horses, saddling up, loading pistols, taking brief swallows of liquid courage. Emmanuel waits near Cesar and Dean, giving him a few last-minute instructions.

“Once the train stops, you get on board,” he says. “Safe should be in the luggage car towards the back. We’ll lead you from there.”

Cesar gives him a little salute, then turns back to the dynamite contraption, fiddling with wires and fuses. Dean stands, waiting.

Emmanuel’s eyes dart to Dean's, quick as a flash, then back out at the assembled group.

He opens his mouth, briefly, as if wanting to say something—then closes it again, turning his back. Emmanuel turns and heads off after Gabriel, who’s ordering the rest of ‘em about, barking at the top of his lungs. Dean lets out a slow breath.

“Good luck,” he murmurs.

  

 

Castiel shakes his head. He can’t let anything distract him, not now. He moves next to Gabriel, pulling at the straps of the palomino’s saddle. Huh. Someone’s already tightened them for him.

“Ready, cowboy?”

Gabriel is grinning, ear to ear. He’s always like this before a robbery, giddy with the thrill and danger of what they’re about to do. Castiel chuckles.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Hey. This was your idea.”

 

Castiel shakes his head, pulling himself up onto his horse.

He roams his eyes over the group they’ve managed to assemble, and feels only the slightest pull of trepidation. Benny, he has no doubt of—the man is one of the most honest and trustworthy Castiel's met, despite his reputation—and if the Banes are running with him, then they must be solid, too. Desmond, he’s met once or twice—never liked the man, but he follows Benny’s orders to the letter. Creaser seems to be the only one to worry about. Castiel kicks his heels into his horse’s sides, urging her a little faster. He’ll have to keep an eye on him.

A low whistle comes from far off, echoing across the valley.

The iron tracks cut through the Colorado desert, a winding stripe of black through the sand and soil—and on the horizon, a chugging train car, black smoke belching from the engine up front.

Castiel bends down low, curling the reins around his hands.

 

They take off with a great whooping shout, all eight of them ahorse, galloping alongside the tracks. Not long after, the train passes them—a roaring blast of noise, smoke staining the blue sky. Castiel digs his heels in and quickly pulls ahead, gunning for the driver’s car.

 

Last train they hit, they got lucky—the tracks ran right through two cliffs, and it was so simple it was almost laughable—Castiel just jumped down on top of the train car, and that was the end of it. This will be a little trickier.

He gallops alongside the train, ignoring the strain it puts on his arms. His horse tosses her mane, legs stretching out in front of her, keeping equal pace with the train as it whips around a curve in the tracks, and they slowly start to pull ahead, coming up on the second car. There's a set of metal rungs at the head of the car—a service ladder for anyone loading up the train’s cargo. Castiel knows he's only got one shot at this. His horse’ll tire pretty soon, and if he misses those rungs, it'll be a fast and pretty fall to the desert earth below. He rises up on his saddle, swinging his right over so his legs are both on the left side of the saddle. He crouches down low, and—

Castiel slams into the side of the car, the tips of his fingers hanging onto the middle rung. Left without its rider, his horse starts to slow and eventually peels away to the side, disappearing from sight.

His joints threatening to pop, Castiel pulls himself up, and manages to get his left hand on the rung above. The rest of his body follows, and he clings to the ladder as the wind buffets him, threatening to pull him from the train. Castiel moves slowly, inch by inch, until he's able to pull himself into the roof of the second car.

He pushes himself up, taking a few moments to gain his balance before starting at a run forward, pulling his pistol. The train jerks and rattles underneath his feet, threatening to pitch him from the train—but Castiel runs low, keeping balance as he leaps the gap from the second car to the first. The engineer is oblivious to any danger, until there's a Colt .45 pressed against the back of his skull.

“Stop the train,” Castiel orders.

“Where?” The man blurts, hands already fumbling for the controls.

 

Castiel twists, leaning out the car, one hand grabbing the side. Several riders are already at the planned stopping point, one waving a hand.

“Up ahead. Here.”

 

With a great screech and shudder, the train comes to a stop. In addition to cargo, the Pacific Flyer is also carrying passengers, which means they gotta work fast. There's always someone to tries to be a hero.

Castiel jumps down off the train as Benny and the rest of them ride up. He starts giving directions, pointing the Banes towards the front, Creaser to guard the engineer, the rest spread out through the passenger cars. He'll meet Cesar toward the back with Anna to blow the safe. 

Gabriel ties a bandana round his neck and pulls it up, obscuring the rest of his face, but Castiel can tell he's beaming.

“All aboard!”

 

Creaser pulls the engineer from the car, holding him with his hands in the air. The engineer swallows.

“It’s Emmanuel himself,” he whispers, in a sort of stunned admiration.

Several of the passengers have stuck their heads out of the window, wondering what’s going on. Max and Alicia quickly disappear into the front passenger car, and Anna moves to Castiel's side, hand clenched tight around her gun. Castiel turns, looking back at her.

“You ready?” He asks.

She just nods grimly, her face set.

Castiel pops open the cylinder on his pistol, a nervous habit. All six rounds, ready to go.

 

He prays that he won’t have to use them.

 

x

 

Dean sticks his hands in his pockets, shuffling around their makeshift camp. Stuck guarding a coupla horses while Emmanuel rips off a train not a hundred yards away. He kicks at a clump of grass, before turning and hunkering down on the ground. He pulls off his hat, scrubbing a hand over his face. Cesar is whistling as his hands fiddle with wires, lost as the train whips by them, a great dull roar. Dean fidgets. They gotta stop it soon, the last cars are comin’ up.

Dean goes very still, blinking. Christ. He _wants_ the outlaws to pull this off.

 

Cesar sure is taking his sweet time, threading the fuse through the dynamite, wrapping it in a careful bunch. There’s a shrill noise as the brakes on the train sound, the entire thing coming to a shuddering halt. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“You better hurry.”

“Aw, relax.”

Cesar winds up the extra fuse, shrugging.

“This is delicate work. You gotta go slow, just in case—”

There's a noise like the crack of a gunshot, and Dean jerks back, showered in sand and dust. He scrambles to wipe the grit from his eyes, gaping at the scene before him.

 

Cesar is lying on his back, absolutely still. The thing he was working on is smoking slightly, one of the fuses fizzling out. Dean scrambles towards Cesar, grabbing for his wrist. He’s limp and unresponsive, but there’s a sluggish pulse underneath Dean’s fingers. Dean drops Cesar’s arm, staggering back.

Up ahead, he hears the shouts, the commotion as the outlaws start entering the train.

“Shit,” Dean says.

 

He doesn’t think about it. He scoops up the carefully bundled dynamite and starts off at a run, scrambling up the sandy slope to the edge of the tracks. There’s a passenger car up ahead, and he hops up onto the steps, bursting through the door. He stops, panting—and is greeted by several stunned faces, the passengers who have just been informed that the train is being held up—and Desmond, brandishing a pistol in his face.

“No sudden moves—” He stops, lowering the gun. “Oh. It’s you.”

He scowls, looking Dean up and down.

“What the hell you doing here?”

“Emmanuel,” Dean says, out of breath. “Where is he?”

Desmond looks at the dynamite in Dean’s hand and huffs, jerking his head.

“Back car,” he says, already disinterested and turning away.

 

Dean turns on his heel and makes his way as quickly as he can down the aisle, ignoring the whispers and the astonished passengers, the explosives held tight in his hand.

He pushes through the door of the luggage car, to see Anna and Emmanuel, staring at a large safe, looking very cross.

“It’s about damn time—”

Then Anna sees who it is, and stops, mouth falling open. Emmanuel is staring as well, shocked.

“Sheriff?” He says, his voice incredulous.

Dean tries to breathe, winded.

“Your—your dynamite expert knocked himself out,” he pants out. He holds up the bundle of dynamite. “Hope you know what to do with this.”

Emmanuel is still for a moment, then starts moving fast, barking orders.

“Clear out, Winchester, next car or off."

He grabs the dynamite from Dean's hands, kneeling and quickly affixing the dynamite to the side of the safe. 

"Anna," he says sharply. "Go. Now."

Anna pales, but darts off through the sliding door that leads to the back car, disappearing from sight. Emmanuel pulls a match from his pocket, lighting the fuse. It sparks, catching. Dean swears under his breath.

He gets his legs moving and runs to the door he just came through, hopping down and off the train. Emmanuel comes barreling after him, waving an arm and shouting.

“Get down,” he yells. “Down—”

 

The wall of the car explodes, wood splintering and flying everywhere. One of the horses spooks and gallops off, whinnying in terror. Dean lifts his head, panting.

There's a great cloud of white smoke— billowing from the gaping hole that was once the side of the train car. Emmanuel grips Dean’s arm, pulling him up.

“C’mon—”

 

They run up to the train car, pulling themselves up and inside. Dean coughs, covering his mouth so as not to breathe in the acrid stench of smoke.

There’s not much left of the safe but twisted metal. Emmanuel crouches down, peering inside. He reaches forward, pulling out a ragged bill that's smoking slightly. He tosses it to the side and starts pulling out the real prize—stacks and stacks of bills, tucking them into a white cloth bag.

“Don’t look like much,” Dean says. Emmanuel looks up.

“You’d be surprised.”

He cinches one of the full bags and tosses it to Dean. Dean catches it, confused.

Emmanuel gestures.

“You keep an eye on that. Find the rest and tell them I need their hands back here.”

Dean looks down at the bag, frozen. It’s more money than he’s held in his entire life.

“Speed is of the essence, Sheriff,” Emmanuel says urgently.

Dean snaps out of it, and turns, heading towards the door.

“Sheriff—Winchester—wait.”

Dean stops, looking back. Emmanuel straightens, pulling something from his belt.

“You might need this,” he says, holding out a gun.

Dean stares at him, but then slowly takes it, the worn wooden grip sliding into place in his palm.

“Go,” Emmanuel says softly.

 

Then he turns back to his task, gutting the safe of all its contents.

Dean swallows. He turns, and continues towards the passenger car, walking the narrow passage that connects it from the luggage car. He sees Alicia and Max first, and passes along Emmanuel's message. They nod and head off towards the back. Dean passes by the passengers, ignoring their shocked faces and whispers. One woman catches sight of him and gasps, elbowing the man next to her, pointing incredulously. Dean tightens his grip on the gun and breezes past her, to Desmond at the front of the car.

“We need help with the safe in the back. Em says he needs all hands.”

“And leave them alone?” Desmond snorts. “I don’t think so.”

He turns back to the woman in front of him, who looks terrified, clutching her handbag. Desmond brandishes his pistol at her, beckoning.

“Hand it over now. Wallet and everything.”

Dean looks at him sharply.

“Hey—”

The woman shakily unclasps her purse, pulling out a small billfold. Desmond makes a grab for it, but Dean steps in front of him, holding up a hand.

“Whoa,” he says. “Emmanuel said none of the passengers.”

“So he can cheat me when we split the cash?” Desmond laughs. “I don’t think so.”

He makes as if to push Dean aside. Dean’s heart is pounding in his chest, but he doesn’t move.

“Like I said.”

He holds his pistol at his side, not aiming it, but making it clearly visible. Desmond’s eyes drop to the Colt, and he narrows his eyes.

“And I’m sure you don’t want Emmanuel to hear about this,” Dean says lowly. “Hear he makes a pretty picture when he’s mad. Gets mighty righteous.”

Desmond stares at Dean for a moment, a muscle in his jaw working. But eventually he growls, turning away. Dean lets out a breath, his grip on the gun slippery.

 

“Hey.”

Dean turns towards the direction of the voice. Benny, his face covered with a black bandanna.

“We gotta get this train movin’. Just spotted the lawmen riding up. They'll be on our asses soon.”

Desmond curses, and Dean swallows, wiping the sweat from his temple.

 

They all flinch when a loud gunshot shatters the air. Some of the passengers scream, ducking.

“Oh, quiet, you,” Desmond scowls at the cowering couple to his left. Dean whips his head around.

“What the hell was that?”

Benny’s eyes are grim.

“I just hope it wasn’t the engineer,” he mutters.

He gestures to Desmond to follow him, who does, Benny's burly body disappearing down the passage and out of sight. For a moment, Dean stands unsure, at a loss of what to do. He glances briefly at the terrified passengers, then turns around, just to go back the way he came.

“Em,” he says, the second he gets to the car. “Law’s coming. We gotta go.”

Emmanuel looks up, eyes flashing, calculating quickly. Then he nods, turning to Max and Alicia.

“Take what you can carry now. I’ll get the rest.”

The twins nod, grabbing several bags before leaping out the jagged hole in the side of the train.

“You need to tell Anna," Emmanuel says suddenly.

Dean turns.

“What?”

Emmanuel jerks his head, still elbows deep inside the safe.

“Back car. That’s where she is.”

Dean doesn’t understand, just continues to blink at him. Emmanuel whips around.

“Go! It’s either you or me, and I’m a little damn busy.”

Dean doesn’t bother to question him again. He snaps into action and leaps over the shattered remnants of wood, heading toward the last car. It has a gilded door, locked—and Dean seizes the handle, pounding on the door.

“Anna,” he yells. “Anna!”

There’s a heartstopping moment, then a lurch underneath his feet as the train stars to move. Dean panics.

He pounds on the door again, yelling for her.

“Anna, it’s Winchester—the sheriff! Open up!”

So quietly, he almost didn’t hear it—the lock clicks. Dean shoves the door open, stopping dead at the scene in front of him.

The train car is richly decorated, filled with lights, furniture even—but the most shocking thing is the dead man at the desk, slumped over, a pool of blood slowly growing around him. Anna is frozen beside him, her gun limp in her hand.

“Anna,” Dean whispers. “What—”

“I killed him,” she breathes. “I finally killed the son of a bitch.”

Dean looks back at the body, and puts the pieces together. Zachariah, owner of the railroad. Dean isn’t stupid, he’s kept his ears open—and he's heard the outlaws mention him a couple times now. Dean doesn’t know exactly what Zachariah did to Anna and her family, but not one bit of him doubts that the man deserved it.

“C’mon,” Dean says, grabbing her hand. “We gotta go.”

 

They run back to the luggage car. The train is moving now, really picking up speed. Emmanuel is still there, and he turns to Anna and Dean once he sees them, the last bags full to bursting.

“What do we do?” Dean asks, breathing hard. Anna takes one look at the open side of the car and the land beyond.

 

“We jump,” she says.

And without another word, she leaps from the side of the car, hitting the dirt and rolling off down the side of the hill. Dean swears, bolting forward.

Anna appears unharmed, Dean sees her getting to her feet rather quickly—but she's getting smaller and smaller, further away as the train picks up speed. Dean leans forward, trying to keep her in his sights. 

The wood of the broken car underneath his hand gives way, and for a heart-stopping moment—Dean is falling forward, tumbling towards the rushing earth below.

 

A strong arm hand grips his arm, just saving Dean from plummeting over the side of the car.

“I got you!” Emmanuel yells over the roaring wind.

Dean is panting, and he grabs for all he’s worth, one hand gripping Emmanuel’s sleeve. He makes the mistake of looking down, the dizzying fall below making his head spin.

“Sheriff—Winchester—I know you don’t want to hear this—”

“What?” Dean growls, his feet slipping, barely maintaining his balance, dangling at the edge of the speeding car. Emmanuel digs his heels in, but he’s fighting a losing battle.

“We gotta jump,” he grits out.

The train rolls over another jolting bump in the tracks, making Dean clench his eyes shut, breathing deep.

“On three?” He bites out.

“Three,” Emmanuel agrees.

 

Dean takes one more slow breath.

“One,” he says, and Emmanuel throws him from the car.

 

They hit the ground in a heap, rolling slightly, throwing up desert dust in their wake. Dean comes to a stop, groaning. The train chugs on by, another whistle cutting through the air.

“What,” Dean pants. “In the goddamn _hell_ —”

Emmanuel is already up and pulling at Dean’s arm, the bags lying at their feet.

“C’mon—” He says. “Lawmen’ll be on us, real soon. We gotta get to the horses—”

“Ain’t no way—”

A loud neigh and the thunderous sound of hooves, and Dean sees none other than his own black mare, galloping towards him. The Banes are not far behind, Emmanuel’s palomino running alongside them.

“Well, I’ll damned,” Emmanuel whispers. “Here!”

He whistles, sharp, and his horse immediately alters course, slowing as she reaches Emmanuel, and he leaps onto her back, quickly seizing up the reins. Dean’s horse skids to a halt beside him, chomping at her bit. Dean pulls himself up onto the saddle, and then he’s after the other three, disappearing into the thickening trees.

 

They burst in through the door of Benny’s, panting heavily.

“Still think this was a bad idea,” Anna says. Emmanuel drops the bags on the bar.

“Clayton’s too far out. By the time they think of searching this place, we’ll be long gone.”

The Banes drop their spoils as well, and the three of them set to counting it out. Dean stares at the endless stacks of bills, his eyes widening.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

Gabriel is looking around, his expression pinched.

“Hold up…” He counts silently. “Who ain’t here?”

“Benny and Desmond,” Alicia says. “Who else?”

“Cesar. Creaser,” Emmanuel says sharply. “But you know the plan was to lose anyone who might be after us, then meet back here. That must be where they are." 

Anna narrows her eyes, but she doesn’t challenge him. Dean supposes all they can do is wait for the other men to show up.

 

They do, about an hour later. Benny and Desmond, dragging a still-unconscious Cesar between them. Anna and Max stand, moving towards them.

“What happened?”

Benny shakes his head.

“We were splitting the bags among us, like you said—”

He drops Cesar in one of the chairs, standing back.

“Creaser took his and bolted,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Son of a bitch.”

“That’s when the engineer decided to get the train movin’ again,” Desmond adds, growling.

Emmanuel places his hands flat on the table, eyes narrowed.

“Any men come after you?”

Benny nods.

“We had four on us, after we went back for Cesar. Des got one of ‘em in the stomach. I saw him go down.”

He pulls off his hat, blowing out a breath.

“Think it might have been one of Morgan’s men,” he says, sighing.

Dean flicks his eyes to Emmanuel. His expression betrays nothing, but his eyes take on a hardened edge.

 

There's a long moment of tense silence, when none of them speak. It's finally broken by Gabriel, who sweeps up one of the stacks, rifling through creased bills.

“Well, I think I know what all of us need.”

They all look at Gabriel, who grins, dropping the money back on the table.

 

“I think we need a goddamn drink."


	10. Morgan's Mettle

Ouray is large and bustling, a product of the railroad station and the population boom that followed. Sam arrives early in the morning, having ridden all day and through the night.

Ruby might have left him high and dry, but that doesn’t mean her logic wasn’t sound. Sam is here to follow the lead. Nothing else.

He shakes his head. Should’ve known better than to trust a bounty hunter.

 

Sam rises from the bed and dresses quickly, only a slight ache in his head. He had found a room at an inn and immediately went to sleep, exhausted. But the daylight is about to run out on him, and he hasn’t even started asking questions.

He stands, slipping his suspenders over his shoulders, when there’s a frantic pounding on his door.

  
Sam stops dead, listening hard. He had made it very clear he was not to be disturbed, by anyone. Who—

The banging comes again, this time accompanied by muffled voices.

Sam moves quickly over to his gun belt, pulling his revolver from the holster, cocking it.

“Who’s there?” He calls, both hands on his gun, ready to aim if necessary.

“Sam?” Someone answers. “Sam, it is you—open up!”

He slowly lowers the gun.

Son of a bitch—

 

He yanks open the door, and is immediately rushed backward by a trio of people that shove their way in, carrying a fourth. Sam can’t see exactly what’s wrong, only a mess of blood. He jerks back, cursing.

“What the hell—”

The three dump the man on his bed, and the nearest turns toward him, holding up her hands—

“Sam," Ruby says, reaching for him. Sam retreats, glaring at her.

“What the _hell_?” He says again.

The man on the bed starts thrashing, and Ruby whips around.

“Uriel, Abby, hold him—”

“Who the fuck is that?” Sam yells. Ruby turns back to him, hands outspread.

“Sam, there’s no time, just listen to me—”

“He’s fighting,” Uriel says, gritting his teeth as he struggles with the wounded man on the bed.

“Ruby—”

“You said you were a doctor, right?” Ruby says, panic in her eyes. “Then fix him!”

Sam is still struggling to process, his adrenaline spiking.

“What happened?”

 

The other woman, red-haired, grabs the man’s shoulder, pushing him to the bed.

“Emmanuel ripped off a train. We were chasing after them, and Christian took a shot to the gut.”

Ruby throws the woman a murderous stare.

“And I told you to keep your mouth shut,” she hisses.

“You _what_?”

Ruby turns to him again, pleading.

“Hold on, Sam, calm down—”

 

Sam pushes her back forcefully, up against the wall. The other two snarl—the man making as to reach for his gun.

“Uriel—wait,” Ruby chokes out. “Wait.”

Sam growls, keeping his eyes fixed on Ruby, one hand on her neck.

“You tricked me,” he seethes. “You used me to get on his trail, and then you left.”

Ruby shakes her head.

“No, Sam—”

“Is money all you care about?”

“Sam, listen—”

“Why should I?” Sam snarls.

“Sam,” Ruby whispers.

Sam glares at her for a moment, fuming. Then he jerks back, releasing her. Ruby puts a hand to her throat, breathing harshly.

Sam backs away, but he doesn’t holster his gun.

“Explain,” he says flatly.

 

Ruby breathes in, and calmly starts brushing her hair back into place.

“I got a boss, too,” she says. “Same as everybody. And I had to report back.”

Sam shoots a glance over at the other two. They’re watching the interaction, tense and silent. But they don’t contradict her story.

“I was going to tell you, send you a note,” Ruby continues. “But then we got word Emmanuel was planning to hit the train before it rolled through town, and…”

She walks up close to him again, hands reaching for his face. Sam closes his eyes, letting her.

“I didn’t forget you,” she coaxes. Sam clenches his fist, trembling.

“I thought I was going to find Emmanuel,” Ruby murmurs. “Find your brother, and be able to tell you myself.”

She brushes his cheek, and Sam opens his eyes, searching for truth in hers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

She’s twisting him around her finger again, and Sam can’t help but bend. He wants to believe Ruby so bad—god, he has to believe her. Otherwise, what does he have left?

 

“Can you help him?” Ruby asks quietly. “Please. For me.”

Sam stays still for a few moments more. Then he exhales, pulling back his sleeves.

 

“Hold him.”

 

The three move over to pin the man to the bed. The red-haired woman looks at Ruby.

“That was really something,” she says snidely.

“Shut up,” Ruby snaps.

 

Sam moves over, pulling his belt from its loops, shoving it towards the injured man.

“Bite down on this.”

He glares at him, nearly delirious. Sam sets his jaw.

“This is gonna hurt. If you don’t want to lose your tongue, I suggest you use it.”

 

It takes Sam nearly twenty minutes to dig the bullet out of Christian’s gut. His twisting and squirming didn't help none, either. He passed out from the pain or from the loss of blood five minutes ago. Sam can't say with certainty whether he’ll live.

He rounds on Ruby soon as the last stitch is pulled.

“Now. Talk.”

 

She glances briefly at the other two, then starts to explain.

“I...didn’t lie to you, Sam. I have been looking for Emmanuel, for a while.”

“Because you’re a bounty hunter,” Sam snarls.

“No, actually,” Ruby says, crossing her arms. “You assumed that. I just didn’t correct you.”

Sam stares at her, nonplussed.

“Then what are you?”

“We’re with the Marshal,” Abby says. “We’re part of his team.”

“And he doesn’t like working with outsiders,” Uriel says, cruel eyes trained on Sam.

“We all follow different trails,” Ruby explains, eyeing the blood on Sam's hands with distaste. “This one just happened to pan out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam grits out. “That would have made a hell of a lot more sense.”

“We had just met,” Ruby shoots back. “I didn’t trust you, either.”

 

That makes Sam hold his tongue.  He had been so focused on whether he could trust Ruby, he hadn't given thought to whether he was proving the same for himself.

“Still,” Sam says scathingly. “Would have been nice to know.”

He makes eye contact with the other man, holding up his bloodied hands. “Some water, you mind?”

The man looks like he absolutely does mind, but leaves anyway, closing the door behind him with a sharp click. Ruby sighs.

“Uriel ain't too good with strangers,” she says.

“Hadn't noticed,” Sam mutters.

“But he’ll come round," Ruby says. "He's just sour he's been chasing ghosts. We had a lead that Emmanuel had gone into Wyoming.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. Out of their jurisdiction, surely. But he's startin’ to get the feeling that these people don't much care for rules, even if they do work for the Marshal.

“The Marshal…” Sam starts. “He’s—”

“His name’s Luke Morgan,” Abby says. “And there'll be hell to pay when he finds out what happens here.”

“Don’t see how that’s my problem,” Sam says, standing as Uriel comes back, a basin of tepid water in his hands.

Ruby looks at him.

“Come again?”

Sam starts to wash the blood from his hands, grimacing as the water turns a murky brownish red.

“He’s the one who said it. He doesn’t like working with outsiders.” Sam glances at the man on the bed. “And I’m starting to think I might do better on my own.”

Ruby shakes her head.

“Sam, that’s bullshit. If you just come with us, he’ll see how useful you can be.”

“Yes,” Sam mutters under his breath. “I’m sure I’ve been very _useful_ so far.”

“Listen, kid.”

The woman with red hair, who had mostly been listening in silence, now turns sharp eyes on Sam.

“We’re riding with the Marshal to follow Emmanuel. You might follow him too, but you get in our way, and we won't hesitate to remove you. By any means necessary.”

Sam stares at her. She glares back, unmoved.

“Abby, come on,” Ruby says, stepping between them. Abby snarls, turning her back.

“I don't give a damn what you do, Ruby. But fact of the matter is we’re losing time. Trail’s gettin’ colder every minute we have to stay here and convince this _boy_.”

Sam rankles, fingers instinctively clenching, itching for his gun.

“I might be more useful than you think,” he snaps. “Emmanuel’s got my brother. I may not have been tracking the outlaw long as you, but I know my brother. As much as breathing, as much as living. I can tell you what he’ll do before he even does it. Can you say the same of your precious Emmanuel?”

Abby purses her lips, but doesn't say anything. Sam sneers.

“That's what I thought.”

 

He turns his back on the three of them, taking in a deep breath.

 _What the hell did I just do?_ He thinks.

“How soon can he ride?” Ruby says urgently, indicating Christian behind her. Sam pauses, looking back.

“I…” he pulls her aside, lowering his voice. “I wouldn't chance it. He lost a lot of blood. He needs rest, not the trail.”

Ruby glances over.

“Noted.”

She beckons to her companions and they move quickly, gathering up their belongings. Abby stands, following Ruby out the door. Sam rushes after, frowning.

“What about—”

“Don't worry,” Abby says, with a smile Sam particularly doesn't like. “We’ll find someone to...take care of him.”

 

x

 

Gabriel twists his glass on the scratched wood of the bar, swallowing the last of his whiskey.

Emmanuel and the sheriff are doing their bullshit staring thing again, sitting at the table and playing with the rest of the outlaws, but with the way they’re looking at each other, they might as well be the only two people at the table. Gabriel huffs, rubbing a hand over his face. Looks like they’re never getting rid of the man now.

Benny comes up behind Gabriel, clapping him on the back.

“How you holdin’ up, brother?” He asks. “Let me refill that for ya.”

“Still haven’t learned my name, huh,” Gabriel says dryly. Benny pauses.

“Ah, but what are names between friends?” He says finally, chuckling a little as he tops off Gabriel’s glass. Gabriel gratefully lifts the glass to Benny, then brings it to his lips.

“I almost forgot—got something to show you.” Benny sets down the bottle of whiskey, reaching into his coat pocket. He withdraws a folded piece of paper, sliding it across the bar to Gabriel.

“Knew he looked familiar,” he says, grinning.

Gabriel unfolds the weathered paper, taking care not to rip the corners. The face on the paper stops him in his tracks.

It’s not exact, but then again, these things rarely are—but the drawing is unmistakeable. Winchester.

 

No name listed for him, but still, a modest bounty of his own. Describes him as dangerous, and known to be working with Emmanuel.

Gabriel looks up, dumbfounded. Benny smirks.

“You oughta show him,” he says. “I know I wanted to keep my first wanted poster.”

Gabriel carefully folds up the yellowed paper, tucking it away in his pockets.

“Yeah,” he says, his mind already buzzing, working quickly. “I’ll give it to him.”

 

x

 

“Is there a...a Martin Creaser here?”

The Ouray sheriff crosses his arms, looking down at him.

“Might be,” he says. “What do you want with him?”

Sam just holds up a crisp bill by way of answer. The man glances around, then takes it.

“Five minutes,” he says.

 

Sam steps up onto the porch and into the blissful coolness of the jail. It’s far bigger than their one back in Creede, and most of the cells are full. One of the prisoners tracks Sam with his eyes as he walks to the furthest cell down on the right. There’s a man lying on the cot there, his back facing Sam.

“Martin Creaser?”

The man rolls over, squinting blearily through the bars.

“Yeah?” He says, voice quavering. He reeks of whiskey. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Sam Winchester. I think you might be able to help me.”

“Winchester,” Martin repeats smiling crookedly. “Like the gun?”

Sam sets his jaw.

“Yes. Like the gun.”

“You know, I had me a Winchester once. Rifle.” The man sits up, blathering on. “Didn’t do me any favors though, I can tell you that—”

“Mr. Creaser,” Sam says impatiently. “I know why you’re in here. I know you confessed to robbin’ that train.”

Martin stares at him, bloodshot eyes squinting suspiciously at him.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” he says flatly.

Sam releases a slow breath. Guess Ruby was telling the truth after all.

 

They said they’d take him along, to meet the Marshal—but only after Sam passed Uriel’s little ‘test’.  Find the one person arrested for the train robbery, see if he had any information. Sam doesn’t understand why Uriel can’t do it his damn self.

He followed Ruby’s instructions and found the man, but even without her, the trail wouldn’t have been difficult to follow. The town was buzzing with news of the train robbery and the murder of Zachariah Adler, especially since he was the reason for about half the jobs in the town. People talked about Emmanuel with fear before, but now it was accompanied with whispers of hate.

Ruby had told him that morning, looking up at him from the sheets of his bed. Sam closes his eyes, swallowing. He’s still trying to rid the taste of her from his mouth.

Sam looks up, placing a hand against the bars.

“You named a lot of people,” Sam says. “A lot of people who might be very angry with you.”

Martin stares at him. Sam taps his fingers against the bars.

“Seems...it would be a….shame. If they found out where you were being kept.”

Martin stands, glaring now.

“What are you suggestin’, boy?”

Sam draws himself up to his full height.

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just want to ask you a couple questions is all.”

Martin looks him up and down. Sam can tell he’s thinking it over, he can practically hear his brain working.

“What do you want to know?” He says finally.

“Emmanuel,” Sam says, impatient now. “You said he was the one that planned it all.”

Martin snorts, turning back to his cot again. “Sure was. And you can bet he got the biggest share. And he was shaking down all the passengers, robbing the poor people….” He lets out a whistle. “Surely wasn’t no even split, I’ll tell you that.”

Sam grits his teeth. The more he hears of Emmanuel, the more he hates him.

“But whatever you got was enough,” Sam says dryly. Martin grins.

“What’s a man to do?” He spreads his hands. “I like my drinks, I like my girls.”

Sam looks away, clenching his jaw.

“I just need you to look at something.”

He draws the picture of Dean from his pocket, showing it to the man through the bars.

“Any of the men there,” he says. “Was this man one of them? Riding a black horse?”

 

Martin squints up again, peering through the gloom of the jail.

“I think….ahhh. Let me see.”

Sam sighs, his shoulders slumping. This man is nothing but a lecherous drunkard. How could anything he knows be of use?

“Wait a moment.”

Sam looks up. Martin looks thoughtful.

“Yes,” he’s saying, his eyes far away. “Yes. He was one of Emmanuel’s. Came into the bar to recruit us.”

The hope that had been rising in Sam’s chest abruptly vanishes.

“What?” He asks haltingly. He looks back at the photograph of his brother. “Are you sure?”

“Yep.” Martin folds his hands over his belly. “That’s him alright. I remember now. They called him Winchester.” He looks up. “Friend of yours?”

Sam mutely shakes his head, tucking the photograph back into his pocket.

“Brother,” he mutters.

He tips his hat, standing swiftly.

“Thank you for your time,” he says curtly.

He turns and stalks out onto the street, coat flapping behind him.

 

The man was obviously cloudy with the drink. Dean isn’t an outlaw, he's a captive, held against his will. Sam feels inside his pocket, reassuring himself of the photograph’s safety. Martin must be mistaken.

 

His chestnut is right where he left her, in the livery stables next to the jail. The man overcharges him for keeping her there, but Sam is too distracted to care. His mind is buzzing, turning over his options for his next move.

Despite the obvious lies in Creaser’s story, Sam feels his pulse quickening. The first real evidence of Dean in a while. And confirmation that it was Emmanuel who had taken him. There were moments when he couldn’t help but think Ruby was making that up too.

As he rides his chestnut past the outskirts of Ouray, Sam realizes he doesn’t have the lead Uriel wanted him to find. He didn’t even bother to ask the man about Emmanuel and where he might have gone.

He bends lower over his horse, setting his jaw.

 

Morgan will just have to goddamn deal with it.

 

x

 

Emmanuel grips Benny’s hand, clasping his arm.

“Nice working with you.”

Benny’s eyes twinkle.

“Same thing to you, brother.”

He nods to Anna, to Dean, and then Gabriel. He winks at the latter, who looks away, his face expressionless.

“And if we ever need a good man, I’ll know who to call,” Emmanuel is saying, releasing Benny’s hand.

He has quick words with Max and Alicia, who are planning to stay on with Benny, then starts towards the door. Max gives Dean a cheeky wink as he leaves, and Dean quickly turns his back, his face flushing.

Gabriel and Emmanuel seem downright chipper, arguing animatedly all the way out of town. Anna has been quiet ever since they returned from the train, her eyes far away. Dean moves up his horse next to hers, tentatively speaking up.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

She turns to Dean, startled, as if spooked from a dream.

“I’m fine,” she says, sounding anything but.

Dean clears his throat. He has suspicions about what happened on that train, but it’s not his place to ask.

 

Gabriel is now flipping off Emmanuel, falling sulkily behind him. Dean raises an eyebrow at the sudden shift.

“What?” He asks, chuckling. “Emmanuel cheat you out of your even share?”

Gabriel huffs.

“No.” He sniffs, snapping at his reins. “Just that he disagrees about….certain ideas I have.”

He doesn’t elaborate further.

Dean rolls his eyes, changing the subject.

“Yes, well, your brilliant ideas aside—”

He looks back at Anna.

“We really going to ride around the rest of Colorado with this money?”

“Course not,” Gabriel answers immediately, wiping at his nose. “How stupid do you think we are?”

Dean looks at him, squinting.

“Then what are you planning?”

Anna and Gabriel exchange a glance.

“Meg’s,” they say in unison.

Gabriel snorts.

“Bet you anything.”

 

Anna just smirks, one of her first smiles since the train robbery. Dean trots after her, shouting.

 

“Who’s Meg?”

 

x

 

 

Ruby leads him towards the ring of light, whispering under her breath.

“There,” she whispers. “It’s just there.”

 

As they approach, they’re stopped by a tall man, a pistol in his hand, eyes gleaming almost red. Ruby places a hand on his arm, speaking low words to him. Sam strains, trying to hear.

After a moment, the man backs down, stepping to the side. Ruby turns, beckoning Sam forward.

They walk forward into the camp, immediately bathed in the warmth of the fire. The people gathered around the pit don’t even bother to look up, instead arguing amongst themselves.

“We follow the report about the cattle thief. To Clayton.”

“You’re a fool,” another voice says. “Emmanuel would never be as stupid as that. We pursue the girl.”

“As if he hasn’t anticipated that,” a third adds. “I say we follow the original path. Back to Teller Country.”

They continue to bicker back and forth, unaware of Sam and Ruby’s presence. She grabs his sleeve, whispering in his ear.

“That’s Tom,” she says, pointing to the nearest man, shorter, brown-haired, thin. "Former Pinkerton detective."

Beside him, the haughty, red-haired woman with the cruel eyes that had burst into Sam’s room at the inn.

“Abby. Morgan’s right hand,” Ruby narrates, an unmistakable tinge of envy to her voice.

“And you met Uriel,” she finishes, her tone growing hard.

Sam scans the rest of the assembled crowd, and notices that the injured man is conspicuously absent.

 

“You all know it’s just going to be the same bull,” Tom says gruffly. “Lawmen from every county’ve been trying to hunt ‘im down for months. No one knows shit.”

Sam frowns, stepping forward. Ruby grabs his arm, holding him back.

“Just stay,” she whispers, nails digging into his skin. “Listen.”

Sam pushes out a breath, but he settles back, fuming under his breath.

“That’s ‘cause nobody bothers to track ‘em if they go through the Roost,” someone says.

Sam can’t resist, removing Ruby's hand from his arm.

“What’s the Roost?” He asks, looking at the faces around the fire. Ruby hisses at him, but it’s too late. The eyes of all those gathered around the fire are now fixed on Sam, narrowed in suspicion.

“Who is this?” Tom asks, glaring. Ruby steps in front of him, holding up a hand.

“He’s one of mine,” she says, and Sam bristles, opening his mouth. He ain’t nobody’s—

“I’m not—”

Ruby throws him a look so violent that Sam's words freeze on his tongue. She turns back, pursing her lips.

“He’s young,” she says, simpering. "But he’s quick.”

 

Sam keeps his mouth shut, fingers clenching into his palm.

“You ain’t never heard of the Roost, kid?” Tom calls. “Hmmph.”

“They say there’s over a hundred men that guard it,” a woman says.

“J. J. White went in there and never came out,” someone else adds, and there are a few murmured agreements. “It’s a death trap.”

“And Morgan wants us to march straight into it,” another voice mutters. Sam steps around Ruby again, speaking up.

“It won’t be a problem,” he declares proudly. “Not if we follow Emmanuel's trail.”

Behind him, Ruby winces.

Abby turns her head, narrowing her eyes.

“It’s a maze,” she says, her tone condescending. “Every curve is a possible lookout point—”

She glances at the men around her, scoffing. “Some even say they got landmines buried in there, tunnels and ammunition—enough to last them through another war.”

The group around the fire chuckles.

 

A cool voice cuts through all the laughter.

“So you’re saying it’s impossible?”

 

 At once they all fall silent, looking down.

“No,” Abby says quickly. “I wasn’t—”

“Quiet,” the man says, stepping forward.

 

He’s tall. Thin. A ragged mop of sandy blonde hair underneath a tan hat, spattered with dirt from the trail. It’s the opposite of what Sam pictured the Marshal to be, but he still holds out hope that the man can fill the role he needs—be the man who is able to find Emmanuel once and for all.

Then Morgan turns those eyes on him, and the breath goes out of Sam's lungs.

“Who is this?” Morgan asks, voice whisper-soft.

 

His eyes are sharp and light—almost gold in color—but impossibly sharp and cruel.  Everything about the man is pale and gaunt, but Sam doesn’t doubt the man’s ability to kill him in a heartbeat.

Ruby quickly steps in front of Sam, smiling sweetly.

 

“The one I told you about,” she says. She grips Sam's wrist, holding tight.

“I seem to be hearing that one a lot lately,” Luke answers thinly, eyes flashing. Ruby swallows.

“Well, he, uh—he—”

She whips her head to Abby behind her, voice pitching high.

“He saved Christian. After Emmanuel’s brutal attack on the train—”

She looks at Uriel, gesturing towards him.

“Right?”

Luke looks to Abby. She rolls her eyes, but nods grudgingly, crossing her arms.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “He did.”

“Ahh,” Luke says. “That tragic attack on the Western Pacific. Emmanuel killed so many on that train,”  he says, simpering.

Sam frowns at him.

“I thought none of the passengers died,” he says. Behind him, he hears Ruby suck in a breath.

Luke’s eyes are harsh, unreadable.

“Lots of stories out there,” he says thinly. “Hard to know who to believe sometimes.”

 

Sam tilts his head, staring in disbelief.

This man….Luke Morgan—Sam’s been hearing his name since he was a kid. He was supposed to uphold the letter of the law, the very last word when it came to criminals in the territory—the man Dean had talked about like a hero—

This is _him?_

 

Luke sits back, sighing.

“I don’t have time for this,” he mutters. “Abby, you said he’d be worth something—”

“I am,” Sam cuts in, before Abby can answer. “I trained as a doctor. I saved your man, despite what you care.”

Everyone around the fire is silent. Sam looks around, then back to Luke.

“And I don’t care whether you help me or not,” he says firmly. “But Emmanuel has my brother. And I’ll save him or die trying.”

 

There’s a long moment where Luke just looks at Sam, pale eyes searching his face.

Uriel pulls back his heavy coat, hand resting on his pistol.

“Don’t worry, Marshal,” he says softly. “I can get rid of him, no problem.”

But Luke holds up a hand. 

“Not so fast,” he murmurs. He continues to stare at Sam, before his lip twists, and he lets out a short bark of a laugh.

"Hell—why not? He's a little reckless, perhaps—"

He shrugs.

"But that might be just what we need," Morgan finishes, teeth bared in a leering smile. 

Sam resolutely avoids the Marshal's eyes, staring straight forward. The man makes his skin crawl, and he just wants to get away from him, as fast as possible. 

 

Morgan suddenly dismisses them with a flick of his wrist.

“He’ll ride with you, Ruby,” he says disinterestedly.

Ruby dips her head, and grab Sam’s arm, yanking him back.

“You goddamn idiot,” she hisses in his ear.

 

Luke looks over at Abbadon, not bothering to lower his voice.

“Next time you bother me, it better be something important.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Ruby practically drags Sam from the camp, but not before Uriel blocks their path, hissing in Sam’s face.

“You better learn to hold your tongue, boy,” he spits. “Or I’ll cut it out of your head.”

 

Sam doesn’t try to hold himself back, moving forward.

“Come on, then,” he growls, reaching for his gun. “Come on—”

_“Sam!”_

Ruby places herself in between them, grabbing his wrist.

“No,” she says vehemently. “Don’t.”

Uriel is glaring at him, dark eyes glittering in the firelight. Sam rips his arm from Ruby’s grasp.

“Afraid someone will do your job for you?” He taunts, glaring at Uriel’s furious expression.

The man doesn’t answer, causing Sam to scoff, turning his back. They walk away from the man, when his deep voice stops Sam in his tracks.

 

“The only reason you’re still alive, Sam Winchester, is because you’ve been useful.”

 

Sam turns slowly, meeting Uriel’s ruthless eyes. Uriel grins.

“The second that stops being the case, I'm putting a bullet in your head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Robbers Roost](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robbers_Roost) was an outlaw hideout in southeastern Utah used mostly by Butch Cassidy and his Wild Bunch gang in the closing years of the Old West.


	11. Meg and Emmanuel

It’s thick and smoky in the bar, warm and rowdy after the cold silence of the night. Emmanuel sweeps over to a corner table, pulling off his gloves as the three of them hurry after him. The occupant of the table sees them coming and hurriedly clears out, taking his glass with him. Emmanuel doesn’t seem to notice, sliding into a chair with its back against the wall, dropping his gloves on the table. Anna and Gabriel follow suit, and Dean drags up a chair, sitting at the last remaining bit of table. Emmanuel’s eyes are scanning the room, when a man suddenly appears at his elbow, placing four glasses on the table. Dean glances up, but the man’s gone before any of them can say a word. Dean blinks, glancing over at the two outlaws to his right, but they don’t seem as fazed by the procedure. This must be the regular treatment.

 

Dean wraps a hand around the glass in front of him and peers at it. Looks okay, but he’s made it a habit of checking his drink in places like this. Lots of folks liked to cut their whiskey with water or something more foul to save a few dollars. Dean flicks his eyes up. Somehow he doesn’t think that would fly here.

He takes a sip, licking his lips at the burn. It’s ain’t bad, but the liquor they had at Benny’s was far better. He looks up at Emmanuel, about to comment, and stops.

Emmanuel is smiling, his grin turning sharp, eyes glittering. He seems to have found something he’s been searching for, and he abruptly stands, leaving the gloves.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Lady,” he says, and sweeps off.

 

Dean throws a glance at Anna and Gabriel. Anna is rolling her glass in her hand, eyes darting back and forth. Gabriel seems more relaxed, picking at his teeth. Dean turns, swiveling in his seat to see where Emmanuel went.

It takes a moment to find him, in the noise and the press of bodies, but then the crowd parts a moment and Dean sees him, standing with his hand on the back of a chair. He appears to be talking to someone, but Dean can’t see who it is, only Emmanuel’s face as he laughs at something.

A few people move and shift, and suddenly Dean can see her.

Her hair is dark, her eyes dark, everything about her screaming poison. She beckons and Emmanuel leans down, his hand coming to the small of her back.

Dean grits his teeth, wheeling back around and grabbing his glass.

He stares sourly at the scratched wood of the table, cursing himself.

 

He has no control over this feeling, this retching, twisting _ache_ in his gut, red hot like a brand, cold and sharp as ice. And even worse—Dean knows exactly what the feeling is. He felt it whenever Papa let Sam take the reins for the wagon over him. When he saw Lisa Braeden dancing with someone else at the summer fair, the year he turned sixteen. And seeing this outlaw talking intimately with a woman.

He’s jealous.

Dean grabs his glass, washing away his shame with whiskey.

 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow.

“You all right there, cowboy?”

Dean stands.

“I’m getting another drink,” he says, ignoring him.

He stands, pushing his way through the crowd. He didn’t ask for permission, but neither Anna nor Gabriel stop him. Hell—he’s helped them rob a train. If they still don’t trust him at this point, Dean’s not sure what else he can do.

Dean manages to get up to the bar, a few seats down from the woman. He glances over to his left, searching them out. She’s laughing, her head tipped back at something Emmanuel’s just said. His whole face seems to be lit up, his eyes fixed on the woman, and Dean turns back to the bartender, gritting his teeth.

“Whiskey,” he grunts. The man grabs a dusty bottle and pours one out, nudging the glass towards Dean.

It’s hot, the press of bodies setting Dean’s teeth on edge, the tinkle of a player piano and a thin voice warbling along. He’s so focused on Emmanuel and the woman that he doesn’t realize the bartender’s waiting for him to pay.

Dean’s throat goes dry. For all the money they just stole, Dean ain’t got a cent on him.

 

The bartender’s eyes go hard.

“We don’t serve folks who can’t pay,”he says snidely, pulling the glass back.

It goes quiet around the two of them, conversations stopping to watch the confrontation. Dean doesn’t have a gun either—Gabriel quickly confiscated the one he had after the robbery—and based on the look of this place, the bartender’s probably got a shotgun at his fingers, hidden just behind the bar.

Dean’s considering just making a run for it when a voice cuts through the noise.

 

“He’s with me.”

 

Dean turns.

Emmanuel’s piercing eyes are on him. The crowd has quieted again, the bartender squinting in the outlaw's direction. Even the woman looks surprised.

“Is he now?”

She looks Dean over, something in her grin turning feral. Dean's neck prickles.

The woman raps her knuckles on the bar.

“On the house, Jake.”

The bartender eyes Dean with dislike, but thrusts the glass forward again, then turns and stalks off to help another customer.

“Em," the woman says. "You didn’t tell me you had fresh blood.”

“I don’t.”

She turns back to look at Emmanuel curiously. He avoids her eyes, instead continuing to stare at Dean.

Dean looks away, a curl of shame washing through him. He doesn't particularly care—but soon Emmanuel will tell her the truth, and the woman will know him for what he is. Nothing more than a hostage.

 

But Emmanuel isn't forthcoming, and eventually the woman purses her lips, slipping off her seat. She makes her way towards Dean, placing a hand on his arm.

“Well, then. What’s your name, pet?”

Dean takes a halting step backward, but finds himself trapped by the bar.

“He won’t tell me."

Emmanuel comes up behind the woman, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Is that so?”

The woman looks back at Dean, arching a dark eyebrow.

“You just get more and more interesting, my friend.”

She extends a hand.

 

“Meg,” she says, red lips curving into a smile.

 

Dean hesitates, but takes the offered hand, shaking it firmly. He quickly pulls his hand back, and in absence of something witty to say, he settles for taking a sip of whiskey, nearly gagging at the harsh taste.

“Shit, isn’t it?” Meg screws up her face. “I know. But the bastards keep drinking it, and as long as they’re willing to pay for it…” 

She looks at Dean for a moment, then smiles, beckoning a finger.

“You don’t want to be drinking this swill. Come on.”

Meg grabs his hand and pulls him through the crowd, away from the bar. Dean throws Emmanuel a glance of alarm, but Emmanuel just shrugs and smiles, following.

Meg stops briefly at the piano, slapping the flat of her hand twice on the top to get the attention of the player.

“A song and a dance for the gentlemen,” she says, signaling to her dancers. “And another round for the boys.”

 

A great cheer goes through the crowd. Meg blows them all a kiss as the music starts, the sweet trill of the piano mixing with the sound of talk and drink, the girls taking the stage for their dance. Meg gathers up her skirt in one hand, firmly holding Dean’s with the other, and starts up the stairs, Emmanuel following behind them. Dean glances around, unsure how it will look to the crowd to see the proprietor leading two men to her rooms—but the crowd is too drunk or too incensed by the dancers to care—and judging by the way Meg carries herself, Dean suspects no one would dare say a word against her.

Dean reaches the last step with growing anticipation, wondering just what he’s gotten himself into. Meg leads them to a set of double doors, throwing them open with a flourish. She strides through, immediately sitting herself at a game table in the center of the room, leaving Emmanuel the task of closing the doors again, which he does with a small smile. Meg pulls out several pins from her updo, then shakes out her dark hair, sweeping it over her shoulder.

She sees Dean standing stiffly to the side and laughs, beckoning him forward.

“Pull up a chair, love, don’t be shy. Hat, coat, it always gets so stuffy downstairs—” She waves a hand, vaguely indicating the corner of the room. “Em, darling, glasses and bottle in that cabinet. There, you remember.”

Dean slowly removes his hat, then his coat, draping it over the back of a chair, before dragging it up to the table. Meg doesn’t say anything, but Dean doesn’t miss her eyes raking over him in an appreciative sweep. Dean can’t help his blush. His usual charm and quick wit ain't coming so easy to him at the moment—Meg has a certain brash boldness in her manner that has Dean tripping over his words.

“So...I, um…” Dean starts unsuccessfully.

“Drinks. Yes.”

 

Meg claims the bottle and a glass from Emmanuel, who has paused, and seems to be staring at Dean. Dean flushes hot again, nervously combing his hair back with his fingers. That doesn’t seem to help with the staring.

Meg serves Dean up a decent measure, and in absence of talk or anything else to do, he drinks.

 

It goes down smooth—hell, probably better than anything Dean’s had in his life.

“Damn,” he mutters, eyeing the golden liquid appreciatively.

“Good, isn’t it?” Meg’s smile glitters in the light. “Got a whole barrel of Holland gin too. None of that bluestone swill.”

Emmanuel settles himself at the table, and they become a trio, drink and the deck of cards Meg removes from a carved box, the lilt of the music straining faintly from the hallway.

Warmth sits hot in Dean’s belly, the whiskey doing its work as Meg and Emmanuel argue over the game.

 

“Winchester.”

Dean looks over.

“What?”

Emmanuel smiles, one hand playing with the deck of cards.

“Just telling Meg. That’s what you can call him. Winchester.”

“Winchester.”

Meg looks over at him.

“Like the gun?”

“I said the same thing,” Emmanuel says wryly. Dean purses his lips.

“Don’t worry.” Emmanuel shuffles the cards between his hands, flipping so fast they’re nothing more than blur. “I’ll wrestle that name out of you eventually.”

“I’d like to see that,” Meg says, smirking. Dean grabs his glass, taking another large swallow of whiskey, his cheeks and throat burning.

 

“Well.”

 

Meg sits up, tapping the table.

“What’s your poison, Winchester? Em and I seem to be at an impasse.”

Dean thinks for a moment, setting his glass down.

“Faro’s a decent game.”

Meg’s face splits out into a grin, just as Emmanuel groans. Dean looks at him, raising an eyebrow. Emmanuel slings his arm over the back of Meg’s chair. Dean's eyes follow the movement.

“Meg cheats at faro.”

Meg grabs the deck from Emmanuel and begins to shuffle, the grin turning wicked.

“Only on Sundays.”

“It is Sunday.”

“Well, then.”

Meg’s teeth are pointed, giving her smile a dangerous edge, something like a demon, or a devil.

“You boys have your work cut out for you.”

 

Emmanuel draws a stack of bills from within his coat, Meg tops off their glasses, and then they play.

It’s fast.

 

He can barely keep up with Meg’s bluffs, and she bets like a madwoman. Emmanuel is nigh unreadable—but to be honest, Dean ain’t all that surprised. He didn't often play the tables back at home—the risk of losing too great, the game always leaving a bad taste in his mouth. And the seedy men at the saloons in the larger towns who made their living off this type of game were quick to draw on any man muscling in on their territory. Dean’s more focused on the way they move the together, the easy way they interact. It’s obvious Emmanuel trusts this woman, that she’s in a position of high honor and respect—something Dean hasn’t seen Emmanuel show much with other outlaws, and something Dean irrationally feels himself wanting.

Christ. He wants one of the most notorious murderers in the West to trust him. How fucked up is that?

 

"Call the turn."

"High card."

"Damn."

 

Meg and Emmanuel draw him into easy conversation as they continue to play, Meg's lilting laugh to his left and the heat of Emmanuel's leg just a breath away under the table—another glass and they both laugh as Dean is left penniless after only two rounds.

Emmanuel cuts him half his pot and they begin again. Doesn't take Dean long to catch onto the game. He's never claimed to have more smarts than the next man, but he notices things—that Meg's quick witticisms and fast bets are usually a cover for a poor hand, and while Emmanuel plays methodically and reserved—he has moments of ruthless attack where Dean is left with no money and not quite sure how it happened. They switch over to stud sometime past midnight, which Dean fares slightly better at. It's his deal, and he passes out the cards, the three of them gathering up their hands.

 

"So tell me, Mr. Winchester," Meg says, fanning her cards out. "Where are you from?"

Dean twists his lip. 

"Small no name town in the south of Colorado," Dean says. He places his hand down and tosses a couple bills into the pot. "Nowhere, you might say."

Meg chuckles.

"Been to plenty of my share of those."

She calls Dean's bet, peering at him above her cards.

"And how might you come to be traveling with Emmanuel, here?"

Dean glances over at Emmanuel, unsure of how to answer. Emmanuel coughs, leaning forward.

"We, ah—commandeered him."

Meg looks at him sharply.

"Emmanuel." She clucks her tongue. "Still doing that, are you?"

Emmanuel's fingers drag slowly over the top of his cards, his eyes on Dean's. He doesn't speak.

"Em, you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Meg looks back to Dean, her eyes softening.

"What's this poor boy ever done to deserve getting taken from his home?" She leans over, straightening Dean's collar. "His manners are far too good for a lawman."

"Sheriff," Emmanuel corrects absently. Meg shoots him a glare.

"I told you you didn't need to do that nonsense no more." Her voice has impossibly sharpened, forcing Emmanuel's gaze away. "Especially not after this train job."

Dean is caught between them, unsure of what to say. He searches Emmanuel's face for any clue to his thoughts. Emmanuel sets down his whiskey.

"You're right," he says softly, storm blue eyes returning to Dean's. "I don't."

 

Dean doesn't know quite what to make of that, but he's saved by the next round. Meg taps the table and Dean deals her her last face-up card. She scowls.

"Fold."

 

Emmanuel pours them all another measure of whiskey and the game starts anew. There's no more interrogation into Dean's past, but Meg treats him no different, despite knowing about him being a sheriff. It loosens a knot in Dean's gut, and he's able to let some of the tension from his shoulders.

Too much, in fact. Dean feels fatigue pulling at him, and the cloud the whiskey's creating in his mind ain't helping neither. After the third or fourth glass, Dean is willing to admit defeat. All his borrowed money is long gone, and Emmanuel and Meg have long since descended into intimate conversation, unheard by Dean. He stands slowly, gesturing awkwardly with his hand.

 

“Gettin’ late,” he says, pushing in his chair. “Guess I’ll be, uh...takin’ my leave. Give you some privacy.”

Meg and Emmanuel exchange a look. Meg tosses her dark hair, leaning forward.

“Whatever for?” She asks silkily.

Dean looks at them, feeling stupid.

“Well, aintcha…”

Meg catches on first, and laughs, light and silvery.

“Goodness! _Lord_ , no.”

Emmanuel laughs too, and scoops up some bills towards him.

“Meg’s my good friend,” he says. “ _Just_ a friend.”

He glances over, smirking.

“And besides. She happens to have a habit of sleeping with her chorus girls.”

Dean blinks at him, his mouth opening slightly. He looks at Meg, abashed.

“Oh! Oh—I mean—oh.”

Meg narrows her eyes at him, her tone suddenly sharp.

“That ain’t a problem, is it?”

Dean quickly holds up his hands, shaking his head.

“No, no—no.”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“Be a hypocrite if I said it was.”

Dean’s been with a few chorus girls in his time, and it isn’t until the words leave his lips that he realizes the other meaning in them. He flushes, but doesn’t correct himself either.

He chances a glance at Emmanuel. He’s scrutinizing him intently, his face neutral. Dean holds his breath.

Meg raises an eyebrow.

“Well.” She grins. “Your friend’s full of surprises.”

 

He ends up staying, because of course he does. Meg pats the seat next to her, and Dean sits down willingly—and the casual way in which she touches his arm, his shoulder no longer seems like a threat. She’s telling an amusing story, Emmanuel leaning back in the chair opposite them, and Dean doesn’t give a damn anymore—just stares, watching the easy way Emmanuel moves, soaking up the man’s appearance without his hat and customary coat. Dark hair, tangled and wild, longer now, hanging over his forehead, white shirt disheveled under his black vest.

Emmanuel catches Dean staring, but he doesn’t look away. Instead he stares back, his eyes dark and hooded. Emmanuel takes a slow inhale from his cigarette, letting it dangle, smoke curling thick in the air. He fixes his eyes on Dean’s, tongue resting softly against his teeth.

“Right, Winchester?”

Dean starts slightly, pulling his eyes away from Emmanuel’s.

“What?”

Meg is staring at the pair of them, one eyebrow raised.

“I was wrong,” she says wryly. “It might actually be time for bed.”

 

She pulls Dean up, leading both him and Emmanuel to the door. She makes some noises about bein' a lady, about keeping gentlemen far away from her bedroom—and sees both of them into the hall, pausing in the doorway. She stands on her toes and pats Dean on the cheek, before placing a kiss there. Dean steps back, the place where her lips touched burning.

“Goodnight, doll,” she says sweetly. “Be careful.”

Dean frowns, his thoughts slow, his head thick with whiskey.

“What do you mean?”

 

But the door’s already closed in his face, and Dean huffs, turning around.

“Can’t say I like your friend’s manners—”

He abruptly stops.

 

Emmanuel has already disappeared.

 

x

 

“You’re getting old, Em,” Meg says nonchalantly over breakfast. “There’s a man been tailing you since Ouray.”

Anna looks up, but Emmanuel is slightly more calm.

“There’s always someone tailing me, Meg.”

Gabriel is more affronted, wiping his mouth and swallowing quickly.

“Who? What’s he want?”

“One guess,” Anna says.

“It could be nothing,” Meg says lightly, picking up her coffee. She’s no less perfectly coiffed, despite the early hour, and despite the revelry of last night. Dean wishes he could say the same—he woke with a bad taste in his mouth and an ache in his temple, and the hot bitter coffee is a godsend.

Meg takes another sip, red lips never leaving a stain on the porcelain. “But I’ve been hearing too many whispers. A rider, alone, but nosy. Been stopping in every backwards waterstop here to Utah, asking questions about you. His name ain’t connected to Morgan’s so far, but…”

She trails off. Dean looks to Emmanuel, but he doesn’t react, still slowly cutting at his ham.

“Then we’ll shake him off. Just like last time,” Gabriel says, sweeping crumbs from the table to the floor. He misses the irritated look Meg shoots at him.

“I have plenty of men,” she says. “Give me four thousand and I’ll send some to deal with him.”

 

She delicately wipes her hands, ringing a bell that sits in the center of the table. Two girls enter and begin to clear away their dishes and plates.

“Thank you, Meg, but no.” Emmanuel brushes a lock of hair from his eyes. “I’m not going to kill someone just for following me,” he says.

“Then, Galena.” Meg watches the girls with an eagle eye. “It’s not far, I have some friends there.”

“There’s nothing but flat desert between here and Galena,” Emmanuel says. “If Morgan is really that close behind us, they’ll be no losing him out on the plain.”

“Well, you certainly can’t stay here,” Meg says haughtily. “I prefer my wrists without a pair of manacles around them.”

The girls finish up, one disappearing back into the kitchen. Meg grabs the wrist of the second girl, pointing to the mess on the floor. Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice.

“There’s always the Roost,” Anna says quietly.

Emmanuel glances up.

“I…” He looks away. “I don’t know if that’d be a good idea.”

“C’mon, Em.”

Gabriel shrugs.

“I'm sure she’s over it by now.”

“Or she’ll shoot me the minute we step foot in the door,” Emmanuel mutters.

“Well, we got nowhere else to go.” Anna leans her elbows on the table. “It’s near impossible to get there if you don’t know where it is—most don’t even dare take that road. They turn right on the path to Ashcroft instead.”

“I don’t know,” Emmanuel murmurs.

“Would you rather stay here and get slaughtered?” Gabriel asks.

“Excuse me,” Meg says. “There will be no slaughtering of any kind in my inn.”

Gabriel chews his lip.

“Guess we could head east, back up the cotton road.” He shrugs. “There’s plenty of towns we can hide in to lose him.”

“What do you think, Sheriff?”

Dean suddenly has every eye turned on him. He swallows.

 

He doesn’t know this country too well, and he ain’t too happy about heading up a twisting path where his horse’s liable to slip and throw a shoe or break her leg—but he knows people. The Marshal ain’t going to be fooled by them hiding out in just any ordinary town. He’ll never stop until he gets his bounty. Dean says as much to those gathered around the table.

“This...Roost seems like our best shot.”

Gabriel looks uncertain, but Emmanuel is nodding.

“We’ll leave as soon as the horses are saddled up.”

 

They clear out, drifting upstairs, out to the barn, to their rooms to collect their things. Meg stands at the foot of the stairs, fixing Emmanuel’s collar. 

“You send me word as soon as you get there, you hear?” She sounds for all the world like a worried mother. “Don’t want to hear you died from no second-rate gossip.”

“I will,” Emmanuel says quietly.

 

x

 

Meg sets them up with fresh water, supplies, and enough food to last nearly a month—Gabriel’s horse near tipped over, its packs were so heavy.

She stood at the door and waved them off, all the way until they were out of sight of her inn, on the path towards the mountains.

“She stays longer and longer every time,” Gabriel teases.

“Shut up,” Castiel shoots back. A quick glance back towards Winchester tells him nothing. The man’s eyes are downcast, his hat covering his face, and Castiel has no way of telling whether he heard Gabriel’s words or not.

He forces him to look back at the trail ahead of him.

 

Castiel can’t think—his thoughts are twisted through with Meg’s words, the memory of the sharp tang of whiskey—the soft green of Winchester’s eyes.

 

He digs his heels into his horse’s sides, urging them on faster.

The sooner they get to the Roost, the better.

 

x

 

“You’re up, kid.”

Sam looks sharply at Luke. The Marshal places his cigarette to his lips, the red tip igniting, reflecting in the hollow pits of his eyes.

“What?”

 

Sam looks out at the twisting mess of trees before them, anger starting to pulse red hot.

“You never said nothing about that,” he growls.

He’d done what Ruby said, despite all his instincts telling him not to. He’d followed the goddamn Marshal and his men, in a hope that they might be able to do something—anything different to find Emmanuel and Dean. But instead he's being sent after another rabbit hole of a lead, chasing information like a useless pawn.

“Didn’t want to spoil the surprise now, did I?” Luke glances at Sam, a smile spreading over crooked teeth. “One of Emmanuel’s whores runs this place. Almost certain he stopped here.”

The cigarette drops to the ground, smothered in the dirt. Luke sniffs.

“Ask around, get a direction, in, out, done.”

Sam tightens his hands on the reins, keeping his breath even. Luke glances at Sam’s white-knuckled grip, unimpressed.

“Come on then, Sammy.”

The nickname stings from his tongue, a malicious barb. Sam wants to recoil.

“You want your brother back, don’t you?”

He’s gotten right back to the heart of it, the snake. Morgan knows Sam won’t walk away from this. Not if there’s some chance that someone inside could lead them to Dean.

“We can’t just stroll in there,” Uriel continues, his voice an oily purr. “Den of outlaws like that, they’d shut down quicker than a snare trap.”

“They’d recognize me in a heartbeat,” Luke says, turning his eyes back to the gleaming windows in the darkness. “We can’t risk that.”

And deep down, Sam knows they’re right. He’s an unknown face, probably the best chance they’ve got in getting anything out of the girl—Meg, he thinks her name is. That doesn’t stop the ache in his throat, a low warning feeling in his gut. This reeks of a trap.

But if he wants to get Dean back, he has no choice.

Sam briefly drifts a hand over his six gun, as if to reassure himself it’s still there.

He takes a deep breath, and starts his horse off on a slow trot down to the inn.

 

Uriel watches him go, Sam's figure shrinking into the darkness. He looks at Luke.

“Think he’ll survive?”

Luke turns his head, spitting in the dirt.

“Not a chance.”

 

x

 

Sam enters the bar, eyes assaulted by the bright lights. He inhales and gets a lungful of smoke, the air in the saloon heavy with tobacco. There are men in crowds scattered around the tables, some entertained by girls, by faro, others at games or drink.

As he pushes his way through the crowd, a girl appears, and quickly attaches herself to his side. She's fairly far gone, breath reeking of whiskey and sour beer, but Sam endures her prowling hands, trying to ask her questions.

“My name’s Beverly,” she slurs, one hand slipping to his hips. “What's yours, handsome?”

Sam ignores the question.

“I'm looking for someone,” he says, taking her hand from his waist and firmly pulling it away. She leans in, grinning.

“You found me, honey.”

“No,” Sam says firmly, evading her lips as she clumsily leans against him again. "I'm looking for my brother."

“Your brother?” Beverly repeats, teetering in an unsteady motion. Then she shrugs, reaching for the lapels of his coat. “Well, I guess he can come too.”

“No—no.”

Sam grabs her wrists, firmly sitting her backward.

“His name is Dean, you seen him? Mighta been here the past coupla days.”

He pulls out the photograph from his pocket and holds it in front of Beverly's face, trying to get her to focus.

“Heard he was riding with Emmanuel,” Sam says, hoping that might jog some of her whiskey-soaked memories.

The woman in front of him just shrugs, shaking her head, but another sharp-eyed chorus girl turns towards them, her voice cutting through the noise.

“Emmanuel?”

Sam turns to her, trying to keep the eager note from his voice.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know anything?”

The girl lifts an eyebrow. “You’ll need to talk to the lady of the house.”

“Meg,” Sam says.

The girl nods slowly. “That’s right.”

She gives him another glance, then grabs Beverly’s elbow, pulling her away from Sam.

“Wait here.”

She starts off upstairs, dragging a pouting Beverly behind her.

 

Sam is left to fend for himself. He considers making his way to the bar, then figures he ought to stay put, in case the girl comes back to the same spot to find him. A serving girl wends her way past, and Sam is about to call out to her—when one of the drinking men grabs her waist.

“Pretty thing, ain'tcha?”

She doesn't scream or call out, but merely looks irritated by the whole thing, pulling at the man’s hands to let her go. But he doesn't, just gripping her tighter, leering in her face.

Sam moves fast, stepping up and grabbing the man’s wrist. The man snarls and looks for the culprit—finding himself having to crane his neck up.

“There are plenty of women here,” Sam says slowly. ”Why don't you find one that wants your hands on her? Or at least lets you pay for the privilege.”

“Why you—”

The man lets the girl go, standing up opposite Sam, bringing his fists up.

But the girl gets there first, seizing the man's collar and swiftly kneeing him in the groin.

"You—”

The man doubles over, gasping.

“You harpie bitch—”

“What is going on?” Says a sharp voice.

 

Sam only catches a flash of dark hair and fierce brown eyes before the serving girl disappears back into the crowd.

Sam turns, seeing another woman before him, but she's no serving girl. Her dark hair is curled, long, draping over her shoulders, and her dress glitters like diamonds. She reminds him of Ruby, in a way. Sam is easily double her size, but has no doubt of the absolute power she commands. This must be the infamous Meg.

“I won't have any fighting in my bar,” she says coldly, eyes flitting between Sam and the man behind him.

Sam quickly inclines his head, taking his hat off to show his penance.

“Beggin’ your pardon ma’am. This man here was harassing one of your girls,” he says, indicating so. The man has recovered now, breathing harshly.

“A regular hero, huh?” Meg eyes the man behind him, then looks back at Sam.

“Casey tells me you talking about Emmanuel,” she says, eyes fixed on Sam.

Sam clears his throat.

“That’s right.”

Meg’s eyes are unreadable.

Then she jerks her head.

“Throw him out.”

Sam tenses, but instead, several large men push forward, and seize the other one—the drunkard. He tries to put up a fight, but they quickly drag him to the door and toss him out onto the street. Not long after, the music and the laughter starts again, the crowd quickly losing interest now that the fight is over. Meg curls one finger, beckoning Sam forward.

“C’mon, big fellow,” she says. “Let’s you and me talk.”

 

Meg leads him to a little side room off the main hall. Sam follows cautiously, one hand feeling the outline of his gun through his coat, just in case. The woman before him is tiny, and doesn’t seem much of a threat, but Sam wouldn’t put it past her to have a gun of her own, too. Several, perhaps.

As soon as the door closes behind them, all sound drowns out. The muffled sounds of the inn rumble quietly through the door, but Sam no longer has to strain to hear. Meg seats herself on a chaise lounge, looking up expectantly at him.

“So. To business.”

Sam clears his throat, unsure how to proceed. Meg was Emmanuel’s ally, which means she surely doesn’t want to lead any lawmen towards him. Sam has to tell the truth.

“I’m looking for Emmanuel,” he says carefully.

“I see.”

Meg’s face is a stone mask, her fingers gripping the arm of the couch. Shit. Sam should have realized—she’s probably had dozens of bounty hunters come through her doors, all with the same mission in mind.

“But I don’t give a damn about what he’s done, or how much money he's worth," Sam adds quickly. "I’m just trying to find my brother.”

That gives her pause. She raises a thin eyebrow.

“Your brother?”

“Yes.” Sam turns his hands up, trying to show her there’s nothing to fear from him. “Last I heard he was with Emmanuel. His name’s Dean.”

Meg’s fingers brush slowly over the couch.

“I don’t know any Dean.”

Sam fumbles impatiently for the photograph.

“He’s uh, he’s got brown hair, shorter than me—hell of a temper.”

He finds it and holds it out for her to see, but Meg doesn't bother to look at the grainy black-and-white picture of Dean's likeness. Instead she's tilting her head, eyeing Sam shrewdly.

“The Sheriff?”

A jolt runs through Sam, his heart leaping.

“ _Yes_ —he was here? You saw him?”

Meg's eyes are black onyx, hard as steel, betraying nothing.

“That sheriff was here,” she says, slowly, carefully. “But he didn’t make it sound like anyone would be comin' around looking for him.”

That hurts more than Sam would care to admit. Dean should know Sam would come after him. He should know.

He tucks away the photograph, a strange sinking feeling in his chest. 

Meg taps her cheek, watching him. 

“Only nearby city is Ashcroft,” she says. “That could be where they went.”

“Ashcroft,” Sam repeats, thinking quickly. “Then I’ll go there.”

Meg stands suddenly, a smile on her face.

“I”ll do you a favor. I know some who Em might’ve spoke to before he left, um, uh—”

“Sam,” he supplies.

“Sam,” Meg finishes, standing. “See, Emmanuel’s a friend around these parts.” Her eyes dart to the door and back. “I’ll be able to find someone to lead you to his trail, no problem.”

She smiles, her smile stretching over white teeth.

“Then we’ll get you to your brother,” she says.

 

She swans out the door, leaving him alone in the sumptuous room.

Sam fidgets anxiously, pacing back and forth. Meg left the door open when she left, so the sound is back in full force. Sam tries to ignore it, his own logic screaming at him to get the hell out of there. The Marshal claimed his men couldn’t enter just based on them being recognized—but what if there was some other reason behind it?

He’s so distracted he almost doesn’t notice the girl motioning vigorously at him from the door opposite.

 

Sam looks around, utterly confused, wondering if this is some sort of trick. The girl keeps motioning him towards her, now hissing under her breath.

“Come here,” she whispers hurriedly. “Quick!”

He steps forward, uncertain. She grabs his arm and before Sam can resist, she’s pulling him into an alcove, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Mmph—what’re you—”

“Quiet,” she hisses.

Sam is about to rip her hand away, he’s got a good foot on the girl, for god’s sake—when he sees two men, stopping just opposite their hiding place. He freezes.

 

“He in there?” Comes a voice.

“That’s what Meg said.”

Sam watches, frozen, as they nod to each other, and both pull out guns. His blood turns cold.

There’s a bone-chilling moment where the men disappear into room, silence stretching on. Then the first voice, impatient.

“Where the hell is he?”

The second one curses under his breath.

“Go get Meg. Tell her that her bird has flown the coop.”

The sound of quick footsteps, and soon they’re back with Meg, her sharp voice rising above the noise.

“I left him for you, right here.”

Sam looks back at the girl, who shakes her head, pressing a finger to her lips.

“Well, he ain’t here no more.”

“Goddammit,” Meg mutters. “He’s run off.”

She emerges from the door, looking cross.

“Probably gone asking more inconvenient questions about Emmanuel.”

She points to the first man, indicating the hall behind her.

“You keep an eye out. You.”

She jerks her head to the second man.

“With me. We’ll search upstairs.”

 

They disappear out of Sam’s line of sight. The first man lingers, slowly pacing up the hallway, stopping at every door. Only when he’s disappeared around the corner does Sam release his breath.

The hands holding him slip away, and Sam suddenly remembers the woman behind him. He turns, straightening slowly. The same girl—the serving girl from the bar, not half an hour ago. Her dark pretty eyes are darting back and forth.

“Come on,” she whispers.

They slip across the hall, into a small side door that puts them into the servant’s hallway. The girl walks quickly, with purpose, until they reach a door at the very end. Sam follows without hesitation this time, the girl shutting the door behind them. Sam looks around at the tiny room, the sparse furniture and ragged belongings. There’s only one small window, looking out on the night sky over the desert. This must be her room.

Sam turns to her.

“Thank you,” he says. “You saved my life.”

She shrugs.

“Meg is Emmanuel’s friend,” she says, voice strangely thick. “Anyone who asks around about him usually gets dealt with. Painfully.”

“I gathered,” Sam mutters.

He runs a hand through his hair, then drops it. He looks more closely at the girl, tilting his head.

“Why did you help me?”

She doesn’t answer him. Instead she shakes her head, and points at his mouth.

Sam raises an eyebrow, but repeats himself, saying it slower. Her eyes track his movements, and Sam realizes she’s reading his lips.

 

After she deciphers the words, she looks curiously at him.

“Why did you help me?” She parrots back, a wry smile on her lips.

Sam shakes his head, turning his head to hide his own smile. He looks back behind him, his heart rate settling when he sees the hallway is clear.

“I’m looking for my brother,” he tells her.

The girl nods.

“I know. And he was here. Not two days ago.”

Sam sucks in a breath. Two days—that’s nothing. He could catch up if he pushed his horse—perhaps maybe with a hard day's ride.

“Do you know where he went? Meg said Ashcroft, but—”

“No,” she shakes her head. “She’s lying.”

She looks around quickly, lowering her voice.

“They’re heading to the Roost. Robbers Roost. It’s a hideout, hidden somewhere in the hills. I’ve seen them talking about it.”

“Robbers Roost…” 

The same place Morgan and his men described.

“There’s a fork in the road to the east,” the girl continues. “Right goes to Ashcroft, but the left one goes up into the mountains. The Roost is somewhere there.”

“How did you find this out?” Sam asks.

She shrugs.

“People don’t mind discussing plans near a deaf girl,” she says, grimacing.

 

Muffled voices and the thump of footsteps come from down the hall, and the girl grabs his arm, quickly pulling Sam over to the window. She opens it, gesturing him through, and helps him climb out onto the small platform there. Sam looks over the edge, taking in the height. He’ll have to jump.

He turns back to her, their hands still clasped.

“I owe you my life,” he says again. “I don’t know how to thank you…”

He trails off, realizing he doesn’t know her name.

“Eileen,” she says softly, Sam just able to make out her smile in the dark.

“Eileen.” Sam squeezes her hand. “I’m Sam. Sam Winchester.”

Eileen leans forward, gently touching his cheek.

“Goodbye, Sam,” she whispers. “I hope you find your brother.”

A horse and rider thunders by, shocking them out of the moment. As Sam looks back at Eileen, something in him wishes he could stay—but he can’t linger any longer.

“I won’t forget you, Eileen,” Sam says, reluctantly releasing her hand.

“Good luck,” she calls softly.

Sam climbs down a few more feet, before dropping onto the ground below.

He sticks to the shadows, avoiding being seen by anyone on the streets around the inn.

 

To hell with Morgan. He’s going to find Dean.

 

x

 

“She’s right.”

 

Dean stops tightening his horse’s saddle, looking up.

“What?”

“Meg,” Emmanuel says. He’s not looking at Dean, but down at his hands, toying with the edge of his gloves.

“It ain't right, keeping you with us like this.”

Dean wouldn't've believed Emmanuel said the words, if he hadn't been looking right at him. Even so, he can barely believe it.

“Ain't gonna argue with you on that,” Dean says, chuckling a little. But it's unconvincing, and he doubts Emmanuel is fooled. He always infuriatingly seems to be able to read Dean that way.

Emmanuel suddenly stands, wiping the dust from his pants.

“Sorry to bring you further,” he says. “But I didn't want to risk it in town.”

Dean frowns.

“What do you mean?”

Emmanuel walks over to his horse, and pulls out a burlap sack from one of the saddlebags. He turns and tosses it to Dean. He just barely catches it, surprised at the weight. Dean opens it, and sees the stacks of folded bills inside.

He looks up, dumbstruck.

“There’s your share.” Emmanuel shrugs. “You earned it anyway.”

Dean stares at him, wondering if this is some sort of joke. But he can't read anything from Emmanuel’s face, only a slight tightness around his eyes.

“Go home,” Emmanuel says. “Give it to your gal.”

“Ain’t my gal,” Dean says weakly.

“Right.” The outlaw's mouth twists into a wry smile. “Give it to your blind barkeep.”

 

Dean looks back down at the money in the sack. He saw the bills they pulled out of that safe. This has to be an equal share to what Emmanuel himself got. He can't understand it.

 

“You’re serious.”

Dean looks around at Gabriel and Anna, who are on their horses, decidedly not looking at him. Emmanuel seems to chew at his lip for a moment, then spits in the dirt, turning away.

Dean stands there for a few moments more, utterly motionless. He’s free to go.

Strange. He’s been running with these outlaws so long, Dean’s almost felt like one of them. Hell, he helped them rip off a train, he _is_ one of them. Is that why he’s unable to move?

Then with a wave it comes crashing down on him. The money in his hands. Pamela. Sam.

Whatever home he might have found on the trail, Dean knows he’ll never be happy without his brother by his side. Despite their differences and the strange stilted relationship they’ve had in past few years, they’re family. Dean doesn’t leave family behind.

And a small part of him thinks he can always make his way back. If he really wanted to. Make his way to the Roost and find Emmanuel again.

Find one of the most wanted outlaws in the West. Shouldn't be too hard.

 

Emmanuel helps transfer some supplies to Dean’s horse’s saddlebags, making sure Dean has enough to sustain him to the nearest town. He'll have to pass by Meg’s, but he’ll be damned if he stops there again.

“Here.”

Dean looks over his shoulder to see Emmanuel holding out his gun. His _gun._ The ivory grips catch the light, sparkling brilliantly. Dean was starting to wonder if he’d ever see it again.

“Seem to remember this belongs to you,” Emmanuel says softly.

Dean clears his throat. He reaches out, almost hesitantly, curling his hand around his mother’s gun.

For the barest, briefest moment, their fingers touch. Then Emmanuel is out of reach again, as mysterious as ever. Dean looks at the gun for a moment longer, then tucks it into the empty holster on his belt.

He glances up at Gabe, raising an eyebrow.

“And what about my star?” He asks. Gabriel shrugs.

"Figured I'd keep it. As a souvenir."

Dean can’t help a laugh, shaking his head.

“Good luck out there, Sheriff,” Anna says. She turns her horse’s head off to a sloping trail, leading up into the hills, starting off at a slow walk. With one last glance back, Gabriel follows.

Only Emmanuel remains.

 

They stand still opposite each other, neither willing to move.

“I really am sorry,” Emmanuel murmurs, a strange longing in his voice. Dean resists the urge to touch, place a hand on his shoulder.

He clenches his fist instead.

“No worse for the wear, right?” Dean says, smiling thinly. Emmanuel tries to smile back, but it’s forced too.

He turns suddenly, back to his palomino. He mounts quickly, bringing his horse’s head around, passing Dean, one last time.

There’s a moment where neither of them speak, just staring.

Then Emmanuel touches the brim of his hat, giving Dean a small nod. 

“See you around, Sheriff,” he murmurs.

 

Then he’s gone, on the trail and up the hill. Dean is left alone, almost dazed.

 

He hoists himself up onto his horse, taking a moment to settle in the saddle. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in deep. He’s free to go. To go home.

 

Dean clucks his tongue softly, and his horse starts off at a walk, back toward the town where Meg’s inn lies. He looks all around him, and for the first time, he’s struck by the quiet. There’s only the leaves rustling, a distant hawk, sounds of animals scurrying away from the horse’s hooves into the brush. He feels truly alone.

He’s been out on the trail for nearly an hour when he stops for water. The sun is high in the sky, and Dean lowers his canteen, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Emmanuel really did take them far out of town. Perhaps he was unwilling to say goodbye to Dean so soon.

The thought twists Dean’s stomach.

 

What is wrong with him? Why does he feel like he's mourning the loss of his captivity?

But if to tell the truth, Dean stopped being a captive long ago. The outlaws had become his friends.

“I need new friends,” Dean mutters, digging his heels into his horse’s sides.

It’s just getting dark as he enters the town. He stops at a place just inside the town limits—not Meg’s—some place that’s nondescript, where no one asks questions. He takes a quick meal and a drink, ready to ride on as soon as he’s finished. He’s not risking staying the night.

Dean feels a bit apprehensive as he passes Meg’s place, but he’s not entirely sure why. It has a connection to Emmanuel, and if Meg saw him, or anyone else, they might ask questions. Dean can’t risk being seen.

 

He follows the dark trail outside of town, to the thicket of trees that rings the outskirts of Stonegate. When they’d passed this way before, it had been daylight. Now the moon filters dimly through the branches of the trees, night wind chill and brisk. Dean pulls his collar up, shivering slightly as his horse slowly makes her way over the uneven ground.

His eyes are drooping, and he’s just on the verge of stopping and finding someplace to lay down for the night, when he sees something off through the trees.

Dean pulls up on the reins, shushing his horse softly. She comes to a halt, swishing her tail.

 

Dean holds his breath, listening. There’s the soft sound of voices, and the telltale cracks and pops of a fire.

 

Soundlessly he dismounts, holding up a hand to his horse, who turns away in disinterest, searching amongst the ground for a few blades of grass.

Dean creeps closer, staying low and out of sight. He’s not sure why he’s being so careful—after all, he’s a free man now. But old habits die hard, and Dean suspects Meg’s inn attracts all sorts.

Dean shakes his head. He’s seemed to have picked up on some of Emmanuel’s paranoia and caution.

“How long’s it been?”

 

Dean comes to a stop, hidden in the shadows. He can just see the edge of a fire, a seated man on a log. He’s looking at someone across from him, someone Dean can’t see.

“Coupla hours,” they answer.

“He’s probably dead by now,” a third voice says.

“That girl would’ve eaten him alive,” someone snickers.

Dean holds his breath, inching forward.

The sound of someone standing, and then a woman’s voice.

“I’ll look for him.”

“You ain’t doing no such thing,” the first voice comes, sharp and vicious. “Sit down.”

The woman backs up, and Dean can see her face finally, twisted into a murderous expression. She’s pretty, in a dangerous sort of way, dark hair and eyes gleaming in the firelight, glaring at the man opposite her.

“What do we do now?” Someone asks.

The first man answers, removing his pale hat from his head.

“Hang tight ‘til morning,” he says in a low growl. “See if the kid comes back.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we move on,” the first one snaps. He’s clearly the leader, but the way he’s being questioned leaves little doubt to his skill in that position. This group has been on the road, and for a long while, tension fraying their words.

“Or we could send someone else in,” the man continues. He bares his teeth. “You wanna volunteer?”

His unseen challenger huffs.

“I ain’t that stupid.”

The group falls into silence. Dean steps forward, pushing a branch aside, trying to see better.

“Emmanuel won’t stay still for very long.”

Dean nearly loses his footing.

 

He jerks up, breathing heavily, hanging on every word.

“If he was here, he’s probably long gone by now.”

“C’mon, Luke—”

“It’s Morgan to you,” the first man hisses.

Dean’s throat goes dry. The man who’d given orders with such conviction—the _Marshal_. And not two hours' ride away from Emmanuel and the Roost.

_Shit._

 

“He’ll listen to me,” the woman says, speaking for the first time since she was silenced.

“You said he’d be useful,” Morgan answers scathingly. “All he’s done is whine and mope so far. He’s a liability.”

“No, I promise you—”

“Why, Ruby.”

Morgan stands, advancing on the woman.

“Could it be you’re thinking with your legs, and not your head?”

Around the circle, the other men laugh, dark and ugly. One moves off to where their horses are tied, further down on the thin excuse for a trail. There’s no way for Dean to pass by them.

They’re camped right on the road, and Dean can’t risk crashing through the underbrush to go around—it’d make too much noise, and he’d be discovered for sure.

 

He backs up slightly, trying to circle and get as much information as possible. He sees about five around the fire, but there’s more horses than that—there’s gotta be at least ten of ‘em, maybe more.

A single thought enters Dean's mind.

He’s gotta warn Emmanuel.

 

And he can always turn back later, when he knows the Marshal and his deputies are off the trail for good. Dean’s free to go as he pleases now, right? He can send a message to Sammy—let him know where he is—

But now—he can’t, in good conscience, ride off and leave Emmanuel defenseless and in the dark about the posse on his tail. Dean’s a part of this now, too.

 

Wordlessly, he edges away from the camp. He grabs his horse’s reins and leads her away, as quietly as he can, until he can no longer see the fire or hear the voices. He quickly mounts her and rides back towards Stonegate, hard.

Dean thunders back into the town, a few people still out on the street, looking curiously at him as he passes. He rushes back past Meg’s place, but it seems just like an old building to him now, a couple men gathered around the lighted doors, music echoing from inside. He rushes past—startling a man and woman silhouetted against a side window—and then he’s past the inn and breaking out into the desert on the other side. The stars light up the way, towards the mountains in the distance.

It reminds Dean of the ride he took all that time ago, to grab Marv—what he thought was going to be one night, and then he'd go back to his safe little life. How far they’ve come.

He rides faster, trying to remember Anna’s description in his mind. At the foot of the hills, by a river, a fork in the road. The one to the right is used by coaches, the one that heads on to Ashcroft, the next major town. The one to the left is mostly hidden, only known to the outlaws, leading up to the Roost.

He passes the spot where he and Emmanuel parted ways—thundering past, quick as the wind. It’s pitch black when he reaches the base of the hills. Dean looks up at the gorges before him and swallows. A man could get lost and die in there.

 

It’s a small footpath, one Dean would’ve missed, if he didn’t know to look for it.

He guides his horse up the steep path, the trail heading slowly upward. She neighs nervously, tossing her head as Dean urges her on, and she carefully navigates the treacherous terrain, hooves hissing on the slick rock.

The night air is crisp and cool, his breath showing in the air before him. After a long and uneventful stretch of riding, Dean finally reaches a plateau in the hills, where there’s a creekbed, his horse’s hooves clopping through the softened dirt. They both plod forward, the water reflecting the orange rock around him like glass.

Dean turns a corner, his heart leaping when he sees a rough shape up ahead, still hidden in darkness. As he gets closer, he realizes it’s only an abandoned cabin, but it tells him that he must be on the right path. Dean nudges his horse’s sides, urging her forward, and the rock wall next to his head explodes.

 

His horse rears back, nearly throwing Dean. He pulls at the reins, and she wheels around, pawing nervously. Dean breathes hard, staring at the gaping hole in the wall of rock, the sound of the shot still echoing around the canyon.

“Who’s there?” Calls a voice.

 

Dean looks up. A head pops up over the ridge, but from this distance, it just looks like a speck above him.

“Aw, shit,” the head says. “That ain't who i think it is, is it?”

“Gabriel?” Dean shouts. He lets out a laugh, tension draining out of him. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you.”

“You just saw me,” Gabriel replies, squinting down at him. “What the hell you doin’, Sheriff?”

Dean purses his lips.

“Can’t you just come get me so I can get up there? Don’t want to yell it to the whole damn territory."

Dean can almost imagine Gabriel rolling his eyes. But the head disappears, and a rider appears from a curve of rock to his left. Dean never even saw it.

“Anna,” Dean says.

“Sheriff.” She nods slowly. “Sorry for that. Nearly took your head off.”

Dean huffs out a breath, glancing back at what used to be solid rock. “Good thing you didn't.”

He looks back at her, squinting.

“Thought you never missed.”

Dean swears she almost smiles.

“I don't,” she says. “That was a warning shot.”

“Hell of a warning,” Dean mutters, but he’s smiling.

Anna indicates the trail. “We heard you coming. Em posted us up on the ridge and told us to wait to see who it was.”

Her sharp eyes scan the canyon behind Dean, looking for anything else suspicious. When she finds nothing, she finally turns her horse’s head, calling over her shoulder.

“Follow me,” she says. “Careful, now.”

 

His horse is still skittish underneath him, but she follows Dean’s lead as he turns her to follow after Anna, up a narrow, twisted path. It’s still measurably dark, but the first few tendrils of light are peeking over the horizon, spilling into the canyon. The trail underneath the horses’ hooves soon gives way to rocky gravel, a steep path cut into the side of the mountain. Dean guides his horse carefully, holding his breath, trying not to look at the steep drop to his right. Her hooves slip and slide, a few pebbles cascading down the side of the gorge.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief when the path veers back into the mountain, rock once again swallowing them up. As they continue to ride, there are more and more signs of humanity along the labyrinthine path—an old campfire, some rusted out cans, an old chimney with a building no longer attached to it. They look like they’ve been here for decades—which is probably the case. Dean suspects there ain’t many people passing this way.

“How can anyone live up here?” He wonders aloud.

Anna glances at him over her shoulder, smirking.

“You’d be surprised.”

She faces forward, snapping the reins. Her horse gives a burst of speed to put her over the last steep part of the trail, and then they’re out on the top of the ridge. Dean follows, and sees Gabriel waiting there. To Dean’s surprise, his face splits out into a grin, and he grabs Dean’s hand in greeting.

“Sheriff—to what do we owe the pleasure? Can’t have missed us that quickly,” he says, smirking.

Dean laughs, but quickly sobers, remembering his goal.

“I came to tell you—”

 

He cuts off when Emmanuel comes out of a makeshift tent, dragging a hand through his hair. Dean takes in a deep breath, waiting.

Emmanuel freezes when he sees Dean, his hand dropping limply to his side.

“Sheriff,” he says, dumbstruck.

Dean swallows, trying to find his voice to deliver his message. But he’s finding it difficult. Emmanuel is without his hat and his coat, vest open over his shirt. Dean clears his throat.

“I came to tell you,” he says hurriedly. “I was heading back, down through town, past Meg’s—when I came across a camp. Ten men or more, was no way I coulda passed ‘em.” Dean takes a deep breath, looking up at Emmanuel.

“And...I saw him. Morgan,” he whispers. “I saw the Marshal.”

Emmanuel’s eyes darken. Anna and Gabriel exchange a glance, looking nervous.

“I heard them talking,” Dean continues. “They’re coming for you, Emmanuel. Not two hours’ ride away.”

“They won’t follow us here,” Anna says, darting a glance at Emmanuel.

“No,” Emmanuel says sharply. “But we don’t want to risk it. Sooner we get to the Roost, the better.”

 

Gabriel turns his head and whistles to his horse, who trots over, coming to a stop beside him. The other two get to work quickly, stripping their makeshift camp and packing it away. Dean watches, unsure of whether to help—but they’re saddled up and ready not long after—Gabriel taking the lead, and Anna falling into line behind him.

Emmanuel turns his horse, looking at Dean for a moment, just long enough that Dean feels his heart start to beat a little faster.

“Thank you,” Emmanuel says eventually, and he sounds like he means it. But there’s a strange sad look to his eyes, one that Dean desperately wants to wipe away.

“How long to the Roost?” He asks.

 

But Emmanuel’s frown only deepens.

“What?”

Dean frowns too, tilting his head.

“How long ‘til we get to the Roost?” He repeats. The struck look returns to Emmanuel’s eyes.

“You’re coming with us?” He asks blankly.

Dean almost laughs.

“Did you miss the last five minutes?” He asks. “Trail’s blocked. I ain’t getting home that way.”

It’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth. If Dean’s being honest with himself, there’s another reason he turned tail and ran back to Emmanuel.

But Dean’s never been good at being honest, ‘specially when it comes to men.

“Besides,” he says, his lips turning up. “Someone’s gotta make sure your sorry ass stays out of trouble.”

Emmanuel smiles back, a soft secretive smile that makes Dean’s heart soar. It smothers the streak of guilt at abandoning the trail towards home so easily.

 

 

He follows Emmanuel up the trail, hands tightening on the reins.

But everything’s different now. Dean’s no longer a prisoner. He’s here of his own free will, to come and go as he pleases. And as soon as he’s able, he’ll let Sammy know he’s okay.


	12. The Brave and the Bold

Sam makes his way under the cover of darkness to the small little hitching post where he left his chestnut. He supposes he could’ve taken any old horse—he’s long stopped caring about the morals of stealing at this point—but the chestnut’s been with him every step of the way, ever since Creede. It’d be a shame to leave her now.

Which is why it feels like a knife to the gut when he rounds the corner, and the post is empty.

 

“No, no, no, no—”

Sam stumbles forward, looking around wildly. Someone goddamn stole his horse, just  _took_ her—

He wheels around, cursing. After a few moments of frustrated debate with himself, he stalks off back towards the inn. Sam sees no other choice—and if he can’t bargain with someone he’ll just have to take a horse. He’s not going to let something like this stop him from finding Dean, not when he’s so close.

“Looking for something?”

 

Sam freezes. Very slowly, he turns on the spot, staring murderously at the source of the voice.

“What did you do to my horse?” He grits out.

Ruby glares back.

“Thought you might run. Needed you to see reason, first.”

“Give me my goddamn horse.”

“You were supposed to report back—”

“I’m not going with Morgan,” Sam mutters.

“I know his methods are a little...unorthodox—”

“He sent me in there to die,” Sam snaps. “Meg’s men. They were waiting for me.”

Ruby's eyes widen—a fraction of a second too late. She knew.

 

She _knew_ , and she let Morgan do it. Let the Marshal send Sam to his death.

 

“Sam,” she whispers. “I—I didn’t know. If I did, I would’ve—”

Ruby shakes her head, an edge of desperation in her tone. Carefully calculated.

“He said it might be dangerous, but I had no idea. I would never have let you go if I knew.”

Sam hears it now, every word for what it is—a lie. She’s good, perhaps one of the best—she had Sam believing her, eating out of her palm every step of the way. But now it’s as if the veil has been torn away—and Sam sees the ugly truth for what it is.

Sam looks her up and down, keeping his face neutral. Ruby steps up closer to him, reaching out and touching his arm. It takes all of Sam’s strength not to rip himself away from her touch.

“Well?” She says tentatively. “Did you learn anything? News of your brother?”

Sam grits his teeth. Ruby’s eyes are soft, imploring, and he thinks back to Eileen, how her eyes were just as brown, but contained a warmth in a way that Ruby’s never did.

“It’s true,” he mutters. “He was here. And he was riding with Emmanuel.”

Sam doesn’t fail to notice the way Ruby’s eyes light up, how the relief floods across her face. She doesn’t give a damn about Dean. She never did.

“We got him,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Where? I gotta let Morgan know. He’ll be so proud of you, Sam—I can ride now and meet you there.”

Every lie slips from her lips smooth as silk, pure as poison.

 

Sam takes a deep breath.

“Ashcroft,” he says flatly.

“Ashcroft,” Ruby repeats softly, her eyes unfocused.

 

Then she smiles at him, sauntering closer. Sam tenses, but doesn’t back away as her hand slips to his neck, as she stands on her toes to give him a deep kiss.

“See you there, Winchester,” Ruby whispers.

 

She breezes past him, before turning over her shoulder.

“Your horse is in front of the store. Left her there for you.”

Sam clenches his jaw.

“We’re so close, Sam,” Ruby murmurs. “We’re going to get him.”

Then she’s gone, and Sam is left staring at the dark ground, his hand starting to numb.

 

He turns and spits into the dirt.

 

“Ashcroft,” Sam mutters.

 

x

 

Dean wakes with the dawn, light just kissing the horizon.

 

He sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He yawns, and looks around him.

The remains of the fire sit ash grey in the middle of camp. Anna and Gabriel’s things are gone, as well as their horses. But Dean’s horse is still grazing next to the nearby tree, Emmanuel’s palomino nearby.

“Good morning.”

That deep voice sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. He turns to see Emmanuel coming up the path, a few branches in his arms. His suspenders hang down off his shoulders, only his travel-stained shirt sticking to his skin. Dean swallows, the inside of the bedroll feeling strangely hot.

He pushes it aside, one hand self consciously going to his hair as Emmanuel kneels by the exhausted fire, stacking the branches back on the charred wood.

“Where are the others?” Dean asks.

“Sent ‘em on ahead.”

Emmanuel leans forward, setting some kindling under the branches before lighting a match and setting the fire to blaze. Dean feels the heat start to warm his bones, a welcome relief against the early morning chill.

“Why’d you do that?” He asks, rubbing his hands together, holding them over the fire.

Emmanuel sits back on his heels, looking over at Dean.

“Lady who’s in charge at the Roost...Anna has a...relationship with her.” He inclines his head. “Figured it’d be better if they went first and smoothed the way.”

Dean laughs.

“You really piss her off that much?”

Emmanuel shrugs, but there’s an amused gleam in his eye.

 

Once the fire’s hot enough, they share a small breakfast. They’re all out of coffee, but Emmanuel assures him they got some where they’re going. Dean’s looking forward to a decent cup.

It’s easy and relaxed, and Dean finds himself smiling, laughing more than he has in a while. The cold, violent man of the trail is nowhere to be found—Emmanuel is relaxed, easy-going,  _warm_ even. There's no posturing or pretending. There’s only the two of them, sharing a meal and the silence around them.

So Dean's almost disappointed when it's time to go. But he helps douse the fire, and then they’re packing up their saddlebags, ready to follow Anna and Gabriel to the Roost.

There’s no hurry, despite the lawmen on their tail. Emmanuel again had expressed his confidence in the fortitude of this place, and Dean’s inclined to believe him. He expects he might never had found his way through these hills if he hadn’t caught up to the outlaws before they started their ascent.

 

At one point, the winding trail takes them past a few more abandoned cabins, the stubborn buildings still standing, despite their lack of care. They stand opposite a steep ridge, one that crumbles away into the valley below, spreading for miles and miles below them. The river looks like a muddy brown ribbon, winding its way through the desert. Towns ain’t nothing but some smudges against the copper-colored earth, trees pinpricks.

“Damn.”

Dean can’t help it, he pulls his horse to a stop, admiring the view below.

Emmanuel comes up beside him.

“Just as I said.” He smiles at Dean. “Ain’t no one getting up here. Not without us knowing anyway.”

“What, you gonna shoot ‘em at this distance?” Dean glances over at the looping trail they just came up. “Anna’s not here.” He snorts. “Doubt you’d be able to shoot that far if you tried.”

He turns in his saddle. Emmanuel quirks an eyebrow, a wry look on his face.

“Oh no?”

He swings off his horse, striding to the ledge. Dean frowns.

“Where you going?”

“Well, Sheriff.” Emmanuel turns, eyes flashing dangerously. “Thought I’d take that bet.”

He turns again, and Dean is left staring after him, mouth hanging slightly open. But after a moment, his brain kicks into gear and he dismounts from his horse, following after Emmanuel.

 

The sun is still creeping up over the horizon, bathing the vast expanse of land around them in a bloody red light. Dean follows Emmanuel up a sandy path, scrabbled into the side of the mountain. It ain't an easy climb, and Dean’s side is aching by the time they reach the top.

“There,” Emmanuel says suddenly, going over to stand by the edge of the cliff. Dean watches him, uncertain. Emmanuel looks back, beckoning.

“Come on.”

Dean walks up next to him, wary. Emmanuel turns his gaze.

“See that?”

Dean looks to where Emmanuel’s pointing. From their vantage point, they can see clear down the valley, the narrow gorge tucked in the rock. If anyone’s trailing them, they’ll have to go through this pass to follow them. It’s the perfect ambush spot.

Dean leans back, looking at Emmanuel.

“And?”

Emmanuel pulls his pistol from his belt, smiling cockily.

“You doubted I could shoot that far,” he says. “Let’s try it out."

He turns, nodding his head towards something.

“See that cactus, there?”

Dean frowns, craning his neck.

“Where?”

“Here—“

Emmanuel steps up right next to Dean, his eyes trained on the valley below. Dean stiffens.

“Right there,” Emmanuel says, indicating a soft curve in the rock.

Dean holds his breath, realizing just how close they are in this moment. How Emmanuel moved into Dean’s space without so much as a protest from Dean, and the implicit trust in that action, that Dean—the man Emmanuel kept hostage for nearly a month—won’t shove him off this cliff, end their little dance once and for all.

Dean’s heartbeat drums steadily against his ribs, and he swallows, refocusing. Sure enough, there’s a splash of green among the endless drab orange rock, right where a rider would first come into range. Dean clears his throat.

“I'm sure Anna could hit it five times in a row, no problem.”

Emmanuel laughs, leaning back, and Dean mourns the loss.

“Better than me, that’s for damn sure.”

“Well, I coulda told you that,” Dean says. “You can’t shoot worth a damn.”

He looks up, and Emmanuel’s looking back at him, an intrigued, mock-offended look on his face.

“Is that so?”

He huffs, kicking a rock across the sand.

“Don’t see you doing any better.”

“Well, you had my gun mosta the time, how was I supposed to prove myself?” Dean retorts.

Emmanuel looks at him for a moment, thoughtful. Then he spreads his hands.

“Okay, then.”

He nods towards Dean.

“You got your pistol back,” he says. “See if you can hit it.”

Dean stares at him.

 

“You’re joking,” he says eventually.

Emmanuel has the gall to look genuinely affronted.

“What?”

Dean scoffs.

“First, it’s near impossible. Second—”

He crosses his arms.

“How do you know I won’t shoot you?”

That seems to amuse the outlaw, and he tips his hat back, laughing. That stings Dean’s pride.

“You can laugh,” he says hotly. “But for all you know I’ve just been waiting on my chance. To collect the bounty on your head.”

Emmanuel sobers, looking down at him with those dark eyes—and for a moment, Dean fears he’s gone too far. But then the outlaw steps up to him, so close Dean could reach up and touch his cheek.

“I’ve known you long enough to figure, Sheriff,” Emmanuel murmurs. “No matter how much you talk, you couldn’t kill a man in cold blood." He shakes his head slightly. "Not like me."

Dean bites his lip, breathing in softly. Emmanuel's eyes flash.

"And besides.”

He whips his hand towards Dean, lightning fast. Dean reacts, but he’s too slow. Emmanuel steps back, holding Dean’s Colt in his hand.

“I’d like to see you try,” Emmanuel murmurs.

He slides back, and Dean swallows, willing to calm his beating heart. He slowly turns his back to Emmanuel, popping out the cylinder. The revolver’s loaded. Six shots.

 

Dean clears his throat, looking back at the lonely cactus, around the bend. He raises the revolver.

 

_Bang._

 

A slow drift of smoke raises from the barrel of the gun, wisping away into nothing. Dean slowly lowers the Colt, exhaling.

 

Emmanuel tilts his head.

“Hmm.”

He steps up next to Dean, squinting down at the gorge.

“That was terrible,” he remarks.

Dean scoffs, scowling at the outlaw.

“Let’s see you try, then.”

Emmanuel smirks, but accepts the spot on the ledge, getting into position. He raises his gun, one eye closing to help with his aim.

 

His shot doesn’t hit either, but it’s far closer. Emmanuel lowers his arms, squinting.

“Huh.”

“Guess if you’re fast, you don’t have to be accurate,” Dean smirks.

“Hey now.”

Emmanuel turns, spinning the revolver in his palm.

“You know, they say I once shot a man down who had already drawn his pistol, and mine was still in the holster.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Thought you said most of those stories were bullshit.” 

Emmanuel laughs.

“Fair point,” he says. “Most of ‘em are. But that one happens to be true.” He takes off his hat, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “‘Course I try not to tell people the man was drunker than Cooter Brown.”

Dean can’t help it, he laughs.

“Smart of you."

He looks up, and Emmanuel’s eyes are on him again. But this time, Dean doesn’t look away.

There’s no one else around now, no fear, no judgment. No reason to fight the growing tension between them, the yearning ache in his chest that constantly draws Dean towards the man in front of him. Dean knows he’s not alone in this, he’s not stupid. He’s seen the way Emmanuel stares at him when he thinks Dean isn’t looking.  

 

Eventually the outlaw drags his eyes away. He gestures towards the lip of the gorge.

“You’re up.”

 

 

Dean purses his lips. He ain’t too keen on trying again. He’s a fair shot, but a target down a slanted valley that’s barely six inches wide? Not a chance in hell.

Emmanuel tilts his head.

“What? Giving up so easily?”

Dean shoots him a look.

“I call it being practical.”

 

Emmanuel sets his hat down, walking towards him. Dean tenses up, but he doesn’t shy away. Emmanuel steps to Dean's right side, taking his arm.

“Here,” he murmurs, readjusting Dean's position, bringing his arm back to level.

 

“Arm straight,” Emmanuel says. He steps up right behind Dean, framing his stance.

Dean straightens his arm, holding his breath. Emmanuel’s other hand comes to settle on Dean’s waist, the touch light as a feather.

“Focus,” comes Emmanuel’s soft voice again. He guides Dean with the lightest of touches, a nudge at his leg, a slight lift of the wrist, but Dean can feel all of him, pressed up against his back, their bodies a tight, connected line.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Emmanuel whispers.

 

Dean exhales—how could he not?  And he feels Emmanuel’s approval more than sees it, a light warm chuckle in his ear.

“That’s it, Sheriff,” he murmurs. “Easy.”

His hand moves, soft and light, up and over Dean’s, easing his thumb off the grip, loosening his tense fingers.

“Alright,” Emmanuel says, whispers almost. “Try now.”

Dean closes his eyes, the weight of the trigger heavy under his finger. He pulls.

 

The shot echoes against the high walls of rock, bouncing and resounding back towards them. Dean opens his eyes.

“Damn,” he mutters.

Emmanuel laughs softly.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You were close.”

Dean holsters his gun, his heartbeat loud and thick in his ears.

 

He turns around, but Emmanuel has already retreated to a distance, picking up his hat from the dirt, brushing off the dust. He’s headed back towards the horses, and Dean calls after him.

“Emmanuel.”

 

He looks back, pausing. Dean licks his lips. To hell with it.

“Why did you send Anna and Gabe on ahead?” He asks.

 

Emmanuel stops, looking back. His hand goes limp by his side, and his face is tired and open, for once, not holding anything back.

 

“Because I could,” he murmurs.

 

Dean ain’t sure when he decided to do it, but in six swift steps he’s closed the distance between them, taking hold of Emmanuel’s lapels and shoving him back against the wall of one of the ruined cabins. Emmanuel snarls, in surprise as much as anything, his hat tumbling from his fingers. Dean looks him dead in the eye, and slips a thigh between his legs, grinding forward.

Emmanuel seizes his arm, and in a flash it’s Dean with his back slammed against the wall, his head knocking back with the force of it. Emmanuel wastes no time, slotting their legs together again, every movement against Dean hot as an iron brand. Emmanuel grabs Dean’s throat, tilting his head back. His thumb presses against Dean's jaw, fingers soft on his neck—his mouth following, sweet and wet, as Emmanuel moves over Dean’s jaw, stubble, breathing hotly against him. He knocks against the brim of Dean’s hat and pulls back, ripping it off in irritation, casting it somewhere to the side.

“Shit—”

Dean’s hands are scrabbling, at Emmanuel’s shirt, his coat, trying desperately to find something to hold onto. Emmanuel lets Dean go to attack the rest of him, knocking Dean’s hands away to find the buckle of his gun belt. He fumbles with it for a few seconds before getting it loose and tossing it to the canyon floor, his eyes fixed on Dean’s.

Dean grabs Emmanuel’s wrists and the outlaw snarls, mad Dean interrupted him in his quest.

Dean seizes his cheeks and kisses him.

 

Emmanuel is frozen at first, lips unyielding, hands awkwardly curled in the air, not sure how to proceed. But Dean just closes his eyes and kisses him fiercely, as Emmanuel’s hands come to his neck, rough callused hands that Dean’s been desperate to feel.

Emmanuel slides a hand around Dean’s back, pulling him closer, kissing the life out of him. It’s hard and it’s rough and is just on the painful side of pleasure, Emmanuel’s touch fast and greedy. They’ve been holding back for so long that now it’s their turn to take, and they can’t get enough.

But slowly, the first fierce kiss fades out into something more tender, and as it ends, Emmanuel pulls back, yet still completely in Dean’s space, his eyes opening. Those eyes are so close to Dean's own, eyelashes fluttering, the hot heavy sound of their breath in between them, lips begging to meet again.

Emmanuel’s hand scrapes over Dean’s neck, round his ear, down his chin, like he don’t know how to hold a man, like he don’t know where to grab onto, but he finally settles on Dean’s collar, gripping for dear life as Dean presses forward, rolling their hips together in a slow grind. Emmanuel groans and kisses Dean again, his other hand moving south.

Dean was thoroughly distracted by the kiss, but now the original goal seems more important, as Emmanuel tugs at Dean’s pants, pulling them open, hand slipping inside, closing around Dean’s cock.

Dean sucks in a breath, gripping at the back of Emmanuel’s neck. They’re sharing the same air, the same space, Emmanuel with one hand on Dean’s cock, one on his throat, Dean slowly rolling against him. They breath together, kissing every so often, as Emmanuel teases him, his palm rough and hot around him.

“Em,” Dean murmurs. He reaches downward, wanting to feel him too, wanting to feel both of them sliding together. But it’s been too long, so long since he’s done this with another man, and he’s having trouble keeping his head straight.

Emmanuel suddenly stops, one hand pressing against the wall of the cabin, fingers spread across the wood. They’re both frozen, breathing hard against each other, lips millimeters away.

Emmanuel leans forward, with the softest brush, kisses Dean again, before sinking to his knees.

Dean’s head drops back against the wood, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. Emmanuel’s left hand comes to grip Dean’s hip, the other around around his cock, working him, stroking him, before he bends down and takes him in his mouth.

Dean grips Emmanuel’s head, fingers tangling in his dark hair.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Oh, shit—”

Emmanuel looks up, and Dean can’t help it, he’s drawn in by that stare, hypnotic as Emmanuel moves slowly up and down, tongue, lips, everything. Dean stares back at him, eyes dark, tongue moving slowly in his mouth, just barely touching his lip with the desperation of want, sinful and slick.

Emmanuel’s mouth is around him, and Dean ain’t felt like this in a long time—he’s on edge, riled up from finally feeling Emmanuel’s touch. His thighs tighten, shaking and there’s that hot feeling in his gut, threatening to burst.

“Em—Emmanuel,” he says, trying to warn him, gripping at the shoulder of his coat.

But he’s too late. He comes, almost tearing the fabric, choked sounds spilling from his mouth.

Emmanuel pulls off him and spits Dean’s release out in the dirt, wiping his lips as he quickly stands, pressing Dean back against the cabin.

“Don’t call me that,” he growls, kissing him again. Dean just sinks into him, too dazed and hazy to question that strange statement. His hands grab loosely onto Emmanuel’s shirt as Emmanuel fumbles with his own clothes, finally pulling out his own cock. He strokes himself, hard against Dean, teeth biting into his lip. Dean’s hand joins his and Emmanuel looks up, eyes blue and piercing.

With a groan he leans forward, sinking his face into Dean’s neck. Wetness covers both their hands, and Emmanuel presses warm against him, panting.

For a moment, they just hold there, breathing against each other. Dean grabs at the back of Emmanuel’s head, fingers curling into the sweaty dark hair at the base of his neck. Emmanuel presses one hand against the wall, boxing Dean in, lips trembling on Dean’s skin.

 

Then Emmanuel abruptly backs off, and Dean can sees the surety and confidence of before draining away, uncertainty creeping into his eyes. Dean moves forward, not giving Emmanuel a chance to misinterpret things.

Dean kisses him again, slow and deep, their lips parting after a breathless eternity. Emmanuel opens his eyes, staring at Dean with a fondness that he hasn't seen before. It ignites something warm in Dean's chest.

 

Dean bends down briefly, picking up Emmanuel’s hat from the canyon floor. He brushes the dust off and tucks it back onto Emmanuel’s head, smiling softly.

“Hell of a lesson,” he says, gently knocking Emmanuel’s jaw with the back of his hand.

 

The smile Emmanuel gives him is rare and bright, and Dean leans forward to kiss it off his lips.

 

x

 

“You said Ashcroft.”

Ruby turns her head slightly, her knuckles white on the reins.

“That’s what he told me. Sam told me.”

Luke stares unblinkingly back at her. Ruby feels her courage wither and die under that gaze, doubt creeping in. Did Sam lie to her? Did he find out?

Luke’s gang is ransacking the small town, turning out every resident, going through every house and store. So far they’ve turned up nothing.

“They’re here,” Ruby whispers. “They have to be here.”

She looks back at the hills, hoping, praying even, that she’ll see a group of riders, a man— _anything_.

Uriel pulls up next to them on his horse, shaking his head.

“Nothing,” he growls, shooting a glance at Ruby. Ruby swallows.

 

Luke’s pale eyes turn on her again.

“You…lied to me.”

Ruby’s blood turns to ice.

“No,” she whispers.

“You said Ashcroft,” Luke says softly. “You said that’s where we would find Emmanuel.”

“I didn’t…” Ruby is shaking her head, stammering. “That’s just what Sam told me, and I—“

“You said you could give me Emmanuel,” Luke continues. “You wasted my time.”

“No.” Ruby keeps shaking her head, her heart pounding wildly. “I never meant—“

“Get off your horse.”

 

Ruby stills.

 

“Wh—what?” She squeaks out. The rider behind Luke cocks his gun.

“You heard the man,” he says dangerously. “Get off the horse.”

Ruby dismounts, her mind racing. No way she can take all of them, she only has one six-shooter, they have nearly twenty men—

She backs away from the horse, slowly looking back up at Luke. He watches her for a moment, one hand stroking his stallion’s mane. His eyes drift slowly to the empty desert to their right, then back to her.

“I’ll give you a minute head start,” he says softly.

 

Ruby stares at him.

“What?” She breathes.

 

Luke pulls his gun, cocking it.

“One minute,” he whispers. “Run.”

 

 

She runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some [photographs](https://www.mountainphotographer.com/robbers-roost/) of the [Roost](http://uthappytrails.blogspot.com/2013/03/back-on-outlaw-trail.html).


	13. Renegades of the Roost

 

Their ride into the Roost is easy, casual. Now that the tension between them has broken, finally been released, Dean finds that conversation flows easily between him and Emmanuel, everything light and laughter. Dean thinks he’s seen Emmanuel smile more in those short hours than the entire time he’s known him.

 

“Just up ahead,” Emmanuel says.

Their horses walk up a short incline, and when they reach the crest of the hill, Dean is struck.

 

A small city, bustling with noise and activity—and _people._ There's a livery stable, a corral, livestock, even. Every conceivable supply and good Dean would see in any other town—but this one just happens to be a haven for outlaws, for anyone who might happen to be outside the protection of the law.

On either side, the canyon slopes tall above them, casting cool shade onto the town below. Emmanuel signals Dean forward, and they walk their horses down the street.

“Where we going?” Dean asks.

Emmanuel points.

“There. Main inn.”

As they approach, Dean sees a man come out the front door, raising a hand. Gabriel.

“There you are,” he says, slightly grumpy. “What took you so long?”

Dean catches Emmanuel’s eye, and has to turn away, fighting back a laugh. Emmanuel readjusts the reins, smiling down at Gabriel.

“Got lost,” he says innocently. “Where's Anna?”

Gabriel crosses his arms, jerking his head to indicate the inn behind him.

“Inside. Doing damage control.”

Emmanuel exhales.

“Here we go.”

 

“Emmanuel!”

 

 

A woman storms outside, fury etched in every line of her face.

“Is that that no good son-of-a-bitch Emmanuel I see out there on that horse?”

 

Dean’s never seen Emmanuel look afraid, but he does now—of this woman in front of him, scowling in his direction.

“Ellen—”

“Don’t you ‘Ellen’ me, boy," she spits. "Soon as you get down from there I’mma whip you raw.”

“Still time to turn back,” Gabriel says out of the corner of his mouth.

 

Anna comes out, followed by a girl with yellow hair who looks about her age.

“Ellen—it's _fine._ " She shrugs her shoulders, gesturing at herself. "I'm here, ain’t I?”

“And not a scratch on her,” Emmanuel says, then smiles. “Hey, Jo.”

 

The yellow-haired girl waves, turning slightly pink. Well. At least someone seems pleased at Emmanuel's return.

Dean tightens his hands on the reins, fighting against his irrational flare of jealousy.

“No. _No_ ,” Ellen says fervently, jabbing her finger at Emmanuel. “He does not get to breeze through here, eat my food, share my roof, then steal my girl out from under my nose and take her gallivanting all across the West, and now I hear something about a damn _train,_ and who the hell is this?”

Dean suddenly has everyone staring at him. He colors, raising a hand in an awkward greeting.

“Winchester,” Gabriel coughs, when Dean fails to provide his name. “He’s new.”

Ellen plants her hands on her hips.

“Well, ain’t that lucky. ‘Cause I got a Winchester rifle that can shoot you dead." She jerks her head. "Come on in.”

She turns her back on them, marching back into the inn.

 

Emmanuel glances back at Dean, fighting back a smile. Dean is utterly nonplussed, but highly entertained by the whole situation.

They dismount, and let their horses be led away to the stables. Dean follows Emmanuel into a small homey room, lit by a crackling fire. There are a few men around the scattered tables that Emmanuel greets by name. Their small group clusters around the end of the bar, Ellen continuing to mutter under her breath, pouring them drinks all around.

Anna and Jo are talking animatedly, almost looking to be sisters. Dean accepts the glass of whiskey pushed at him by Gabriel, just listening to the conversation. Gabriel sits back, looking around.

"Where's Bobby?" He asks.

Dean looks up sharply.

Ellen is now wiping her hands on an old rag, still looking cross.

"Supply run. Should be coming back soon."

Gabriel nods thoughtfully. Dean looks down at his drink, clearing his throat.

He glances at Ellen during a lull in the conversation, then turns to Anna.

“This your mama?” He asks. That earns a laugh from all of them.

“Mine,” the girl named Jo says. “Anna came to live with us after those bastards killed her pa.”

Anna kicks at her under the table.

“Tell everyone, why dontcha,” she grumbles.

But Ellen places a hand on Anna’s arm, her eyes on Emmanuel.

“Can’t believe you took off for that crazy idea,” she says. “Still debatin’ whether or not to shoot you for that, Emmanuel.”

Emmanuel coughs.

“Not like I had much choice in the matter,” he mutters into his glass.

 

Emmanuel and Ellen’s conversation is lost on Dean, as he turns, wandering out onto the porch. He sits down on the edge, looking at the town before him. Damn. He’d never imagined anything like it, in all his time daydreamin’ of a long career of capturing outlaws. Dean laughs, a slightly sour tinge to his mirth. Lord knows, he could be considered an outlaw himself, now.

He swirls the drink in his glass, staring at the cracks in the thirsty earth. Dean takes another sip, but it doesn't wash away the sudden melancholy sitting in his gut.

He’s not sure why he’s so bothered. Dean’s long stopped prickin’ his ears up at the mention of the name Bobby.

 

He stares out at the canyon that surround this small outlaw’s paradise, wondering how far the border to Utah lies, how far the closest thing he ever had to a father rode off to. What has it been now, ten years? Half of it spent in Creede, whiling away the hours in between jailing drunks by getting drunk himself. And then Emmanuel had rode in, and completely turned Dean’s world upside down. Thinking about it now, Dean’s not sure there’s anyway he’s willing to go back.

Christ, Dean thinks, sinking his head in his hands. In a few short weeks, he’d gone from loathing Emmanuel’s guts, to whispering his name as Emmanuel brought Dean to his pleasure. And now Dean's looking into the future, and he can't imagine anything else. And he knows it'll be dangerous. An outlaw’s life is lived at the edge of a knife and the barrel of a gun. And Dean realizes he's ready for that. He yearns for that now.

But Sam. Shit. How is he going to tell Sam?

How is he going to _find_ Sam? There's gotta be a way to get a message out. He’ll...he'll ask Ellen, soon as he can. She seems like a smart woman, and she knows the way things work around here. She’ll find a way for him to contact Sam.

Dean stands, and wanders back inside. If he's lucky, someone around here will be able to whip up a decent meal. He's starving.

 

x

 

Sam tightens his hands on the reins, sinking forward.

He’s pretty damn sure he’s seen that rock wall before. It looks the same as every other rock in this godforsaken place—but something inside him is sure.

He’s been going in circles.

Sam swings himself off his horse, cursing in frustration.

 

He’d headed off as soon as Ruby had gone, double and triple checking to make sure he wasn't being followed. Sam's fairly certain he made it out of town without being seen, and had started up the path that Eileen had described with eager anticipation—but now he's utterly lost. The trail through the rock is like a maze, full of false turns and identical paths. Sam has lost count of the times he'd guessed at a turn and wound up at a dead end. He's not one to panic easily, but he's starting to get a sinking feeling in his stomach—one of hopeless realization. He might never find his way.

He might die in here.

Sam kicks at a rock, and sends it skittering off down a cliff below, the sound echoing for long afterward. He removes his hat and stares off at the skyline, purple and red painting the clouds as the sun sets. He's lost a day in here.

There’s nothing to it but to try and make camp for the night. Sam goes through the motions, anger painting every move, his building of the campfire and his makeshift bed jerky and stiff. Throwing things with slightly more force than usual helps ease some of his frustration, but he’s still tossing and turning when he finally lays down under a blanket of stars. Sam's mind is racing for he doesn’t know how long—but somewhere between imagining his death in this godforsaken canyon and imagining finding Dean, he falls asleep.

 

He’s awoken by a boot to his side.

 

Sam blinks his eyes, throwing a hand up to fight off the glare. He sees a pair of legs, a bandanna-covered face, and a shotgun, pointed straight at his chest.

Sam scrambles back, pulling his revolver. The chill of early morning makes his movements heavy and sluggish, but he succeeds in pointing it back at the man, finger poised on the trigger. His breath rises in cold puffs of white, his heart pounding.

The man in front of him cocks the shotgun.

“Might want to rethink that, son,” he grits out, voice sounding strangely familiar.

 

Sam squints, his eyes still adjusting to the light. He must be imagining things.

“What are you doing in these here hills?” The man continues, eyes glaring down at Sam.

Sam doesn’t lower his gun, staring right back.

“Tryin’ to find the Roost,” he says flatly.

“Bounty hunter, eh?” The man snorts. “Figured. You’ll be unsurprised to know that I can’t let that happen.” He gestures with the shotgun. “So on your way, now.”

Instead, Sam lowers his gun. He’s finally placed the voice, and now he’s struggling to get the words out, his heart thumping with painful hope.

 

“Bobby?” He whispers.

 

The man narrows his eyes, looking him up and down.

“Do I know you, feller?”

Sam hastily tucks his gun away, reaching out a hand.

“Bobby, it’s me,” he says, his voice breaking. “It’s Sam.”

 

The hard look in the man’s eyes break, and he stares for a moment, shocked. Then he removes his bandanna—and Sam has no doubts anymore.

It’s him, really him. Bobby Singer, in the flesh.

“Sam?” He whispers. “Sam Winchester?”

 

Sam doesn’t hesitate, he bolts up—and the shotgun drops to the ground as Sam locks his arms around Bobby. He might be older and quite a bit taller now, but Sam suddenly feels twelve years old again, traveling the backwoods of Kansas to Colorado’s border, laughing and joking with Dean and Bobby beside him to displace the sorrow of losing home.

 

They break apart, Bobby gripping Sam’s shoulders. The older man looks him up and down, utterly in disbelief.

“Sam....what the hell you doing here?”

“Me—what are _you_ doing here?" Sam stares at him, mind still struggling to catch up. "We thought you were dead—”

Bobby drops his hands, chuckling under his breath.

“No, no. Not yet, anyway.”

He removes his hat, wiping his forehead of sweat.

“Long and boring story, kid." Bobby pauses, looking at Sam. "Right now, I'm more interested in knowing why you’re prowling around these hills."

Sam barks out a tense laugh, looking at the man opposite.

“You first."

 

Bobby huffs.

"Fine."

He picks up his shotgun again, raising an eyebrow.

"Find a place for me to sit, would you?"

 

It's the same impatient tone he used to take with Sam when he forgot one of his chores—and Sam quickly moves to the side, gesturing for Bobby to take what had passed for a seat the night before. Despite everything, Sam's incredibly giddy, reeling from seeing Bobby again. He fumbles towards his fire from last night, starting on trying to light it again. Bobby watches silently, taking in a deep breath.

“Gotta apologize, first and foremost," he murmurs.

Sam stops trying to light his match, looking back at Bobby.

“What?”

Bobby sighs, eyes dropping down to his hands.

“I left you boys there, all alone. You had nothing, had to figure it out on your own. And I never knew what happened to you—”

He looks up, eyes suddenly pained.

“Dean. He alright?” Bobby looks around briefly. “Thought you boys were damn near inseparable. Why ain’t he with you?”

Sam’s throat closes for a moment.

“That’s part of it,” he mutters. “I’m looking for him.”

“Up here?” Bobby asks, face painted in disbelief.

“Like you said. Long story,” Sam says. He turns back to the ashes of the spent fire, striking angrily at his match. Bobby is quiet.

“I was coming back. I was. I swear.”

Sam pauses, breathing in hard.

“I got the money,” Bobby continues. “And I was comin’ back, when I got robbed. Leg broke when I fought against ‘em. Couldn’t go anywhere for months.”

The fire sparks and the remnants of the wood begin to burn, but Sam can’t turn, can’t do anything but listen.

“Luckily Ellen found me,” Bobby says, his voice turning fond. “Ellen Harvelle. She wasn’t livin’ in the Roost at the time, but she was runnin’ with the crowd. Husband died in the war, was livin’ alone with her daughter.” He sighs. “Soon as my leg was better, I went back to Colorado. But when I got there, you boys were gone. No trace of ya.”

Sam sits back, facing Bobby.

“We had to go,” he mutters. “We had nothing.”

Bobby dips his head.

“And that’s my fault,” he whispers. “Still punishing myself for that. Every day.”

Sam looks up.

“It ain’t your fault.”

Bobby avoids his eyes.

“I shoulda done better by you boys,” he murmurs. “That’s what John asked of me, and I couldn’t even manage it—not for a month. I—”

He cuts off, his voice dropping to nothing. He covers his face with his hand, breathing in shakily.

Sam waits, frozen.

“And then I went back to Ellen,” Bobby says flatly. “Because it was the only place I had to go.”

“Sounds like it,” Sam says, unable to keep the tone out of his voice.

Bobby looks up.

“Still got that mouth, I see,” he says. But he’s smiling, his joy at seeing Sam again spilling into every action. Sam reflects Bobby's smile, beaming. But when the thought of Dean returns, his mood sours. 

“Dean was taken,” Sam says flatly. “By an outlaw. Emmanuel. Heard he’s at the Roost." He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "Been chasing him for almost a month now.”

“Emmanuel?” Bobby looks up, squinting. “I know him.”

Sam whips his head around sharply. "What?”

Bobby shrugs.

“Only met him a couple times. Polite feller. His friends? Not so much.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Bobby lifts an eyebrow. Sam clenches his fists.

“He kidnapped Dean,” he says through gritted teeth. But Bobby doesn’t seem surprised.

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” he says airily. “You spend enough time around outlaws, stuff don’t suprise you no more.”

Sam huffs out a dejected laugh, dropping his head.

“Well. That’s why I’m here,” he mutters. “Been chasing this Emmanuel all over Colorado Territory. And someone said he was heading up to the Roost.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow.

“And you think Dean is with him?”

Sam lets out a breath.

“Hoping he is,” he says softly.

Bobby looks him up and down, his eyes shrewd. He might’ve aged, but he’s lost none of his wile.

“Then we’ll find him,” he says firmly. “And if he’s hurt Dean, they’re’ll be hell to pay.”

 

x

 

Gabriel tips back his tin mug, gulping the thick, strong coffee. Emmanuel rolls his eyes.

“Relax,” he mutters. Gabriel shoots him an angry glare.

“You have the Marshal and his crew on your ass, and then you can talk.” He sets down his mug on the lip of the canyon. “Oh wait, you do.”

“Shut up, Gabe.”

 

The three of them decided to relieve the watch, posted up on the northernmost side of the Roost, looking down at the valley below. Emmanuel assured Dean that if they anyone did enter the valley, they’d have plenty of time to see them coming, and raise the alarm if need be. They’ve been sitting here since before the sun rose, and the first faint hours of daylight have done nothing to warm Dean’s bones. He rubs his hands together, blowing on them slightly to keep them warm. Damn him for forgetting his gloves.

Ain’t like him to do something like that, but there had been a lot of unusual things about this morning. Ellen gave them all their own rooms in her spacious inn, but that didn’t stop Emmanuel from seeking out Dean’s sometime after midnight.

He pulls his thoughts back to the present, squinting at the valley below him.

“Hey,” Dean says, pointing. “That ain’t something, is it?”

 

x

 

“That ain’t something, is it?”

Emmanuel looks up, his eyes narrowed. He darts a glance over at Gabriel, who just shrugs. Emmanuel rolls his eyes and stands,  taking his binoculars from his pocket.

“Shit,” he curses, after a moment. “Two riders.”

Emmanuel moves fast, pulling his revolver from its holster, gesturing to Gabriel.

“You and me, here. Winchester—post yourself up on that skyline. See if you can’t spot anything. And if you do, you give us the signal.”

The sheriff nods, without any questions or challenges. He heads up the path Emmanuel indicated, disappearing into the twisting valley of rock. Gabriel glances at Emmanuel.

“You sure we can trust him?” He mutters.

A strange look passes over Emmanuel’s face.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, and there’s no deception in his voice. “We can.”

 

x

 

Dean climbs up the sandy slope—plenty of footholds so he’s at the top quickly—and he hunches down at the edge of the cliff, eyes trained on the curve of rock at the edge of the valley. There’s a slightly better vantage point from here, and Dean will see ‘em first. The sound of hooves steadily grows louder, and Dean leans forward, ready to make the signal.

The trail is empty for a few tense moments—only the cry of an eagle splitting the silence—and then, there. Two riders emerge from the trailhead, riding directly towards the Roost.

Dean places his fingers in his mouth, about to whistle to Emmanuel and Gabriel—but then he freezes, mouth dropping open.

The first rider’s got his face covered with a bandanna, but the second is looking around, hat shielding his face.

Dean stares, unable to move. He knows that hat.

 

The second rider grabs his reins, turning his horse sharply. He calls something to the first rider, unheard by Dean. But it doesn’t matter.

It’s Sam. _Sam._

 

He scrambles down the ridge, rock sliding under his feet.

“Emmanuel—”

The outlaw looks up, alarmed.

“Sheriff—what the hell—”

Gabriel has seen them too, and his eyes are fixed on the two riders.

“Two men comin’ up,”  he says curtly, drawing his pistol.

Dean bolts, placing himself in front of Gabriel.

“No,” he yells, holding his hands up. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot—”

“What the hell—”

“Sheriff—”

Emmanuel grabs Dean’s wrist, pulling him to the side.

“What are you doing?”

“Got ‘em,” Gabriel mutters, closing one eye as he aims. Dean shoves Emmanuel aside, drawing his own gun.

“Drop the gun, Gabe,” Dean orders. He can feel Emmanuel staring at him, horror on his face.

“What are you doing?”

“You make a move on him, and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground, you understand me?” Dean yells. “Back. Off.”

Gabriel does, backing away from Dean. He shoots a vicious look at Emmanuel.

“Told you we should have shot him when we had the chance,” he mutters.

 

Dean exhales, lowering his revolver. Emmanuel is staring still, betrayal in his eyes.

“I—”

Dean swallows, meeting his stare.

“It’s my brother,” Dean says, his voice breaking. “My brother.”

 

And he runs.

 

Dean runs at breakneck speed, trying to not think of the look on Emmanuel’s face.

 

He runs down the ridge, losing sight of the two riders for a heart-stopping second. Then he spills out into the canyon, the two horses opposite him.

“Sam,” Dean yells, sprinting forward. _“Sam!”_

He sees Sam come to an abrupt halt, his jaw going slack when he sees Dean. But to Dean's surprise, the other rider is the one who answers, eyes widening.

“Dean?”

 

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

 

 

A shot cracks through the air, sending them all ducking. Dean whips his head up, panting. 

“Son of a bitch,” the other rider curses. “Someone followed us.”

As on cue, three riders round the corner behind them, guns out. Dean suddenly finds himself sprinting the opposite direction. The first rider barrels past him, and Dean hears the gunshots, striking the canyon floor behind him.

“Dean!”

Dean looks up to see Sam beside him, thrusting a hand out. Without a thought, Dean grabs it.

 

It feels like he nearly rips his arm out of its socket, but Dean swings up and onto the horse, clinging to the saddle.

“Hang on!” Sam yells, snapping the reins.

Dean chances a look back, and his heart nearly stops. The riders are right behind them, barely forty paces. Dean thinks the only reason they haven't shot 'em full of bullets is that they're riding so hard—it's throwing their aim.

A bullet cracks right by his head, causing Dean to duck, gasping.

Scratch that.

 

Dean whips his head back forward. The other rider has made it to the foothills, and has ducked down behind a lip of rock—swinging himself off his horse and sending shots back at the men behind Dean and Sam.

“We gotta get to the hills!” He yells to Sam.

“I see it,” Sam calls back, never tearing his eyes from the trail in front of him. “Bobby’ll give us cover—”

Dean blanches.

“Bobby?”

And then the world upends in a screaming rush of pain and color.

 

x

 

Castiel barrels down the hillside, sharp eyes scanning, assessing—quickly finding the danger. Three riders, coming straight down the gorge, sending off shots without any real aim. The other rider is answering with his own pistol from what little shelter he’s managed to find—Castiel recognizes him as Bobby, the man who’d become a staple at Ellen’s the past few years.

And just ahead—Winchester and his brother— _brother._ Castiel is still reeling, but he forces himself to shove it aside. Deal with the threat first. Figure shit out later.

 

He turns his eyes back to the riders. In a moment of dread, Castiel thinks that perhaps they weren’t careful enough—and that Morgan had managed to follow them into the hills. Surely the Marshal’s men would never pull off an attack as sloppy as this—

Another shot, and a round of swearing follows. Castiel skids down the rocky gravel path, Bobby coming back into sight. He’s cursing wildly, a gash in his arm, bright blood leaking weakly from the wound.

“Son of a bitch—”

Castiel pulls his gun and sends a shot towards one of the riders. He hits him in the shoulder, and the man slumps in his saddle, his horse veering off wildly to the left. Castiel jumps down the last few feet to the canyon floor, and hears a terrifying scream.

The point rider is firing wildly—and one of the shots hits the chestnut horse’s feet—missing by inches. She rears back, throwing both of her riders—gunshots wild and rapid over the horses shrieking in terror, Bobby yelling himself hoarse.

Castiel doesn’t hesitate—he bolts forward.

Winchester’s on the ground, looking dazed but alive, his eyes fluttering open. His brother is groaning, pushing himself up on shaky arms, a long gash on his cheek.

“Sheriff,” Castiel grunts out, grabbing at his arm, trying to pull him up. The other man sees and growls, shoving at Castiel.

“Get away from him—”

“Back off—”

The brother curls his hand into a fist and Castiel snarls, pulling his gun.

“Sam—wait. _Wait_.”

Winchester grabs at his brother’s sleeve.

“You can do the posturing later,” he grunts. “We gotta get the hell out of here.”

Castiel sees Sam’s eyes narrow, still assessing him, watching him for a potential threat—but he ignores Castiel and grabs Winchester’s arm, pulling him towards where Bobby and Gabriel are now crouched. Gabriel stands—stupidly stands and is exposed for a heart-stopping moment—but hits the point rider, a straight shot that drops him like a sack of potatoes. Castiel whips around, looking for the third—

And sees the rider pulling his—no, her—horse to a stop. Castiel glares up at her, a rush of hate nearly threatening to overwhelm him.

“Castiel,” she says, lip curling.

“Abaddon,” Castiel snarls.

She sneers down at him from her horse, lifting her shiny pistol.

“Long time no see, eh?”

 

x 

 

Dean sees the woman on the horse, speaking to Emmanuel, sees them exchange words, but he can’t quite hear—

 

x

 

She points the barrel straight at Castiel, then her eyes change course, and she twists in her saddle, taking dead aim at the retreating Winchester brothers.

Castiel doesn’t think.

 

_No—_

 

He’s not sure if it was his own voice, or the sheriff’s—but he’s only conscious of his back hitting the canyon floor, white hot pain radiating from his gut.

_No, no, Emmanuel—_

That’s not my goddamn name, that’s not me—

 

Castiel clenches his jaw against the pain, aiming and sending off three quick shots.

They all hit their mark, and Abaddon is no longer a problem.

 

The gun slips from his fingers, and Castiel realizes breath is coming hard and short to him, his vision spotting with stars. He tries to call out, but his tongue is thick and wet with blood.

Two hands are on his shoulder, a face swimming into view—

Then everything dissolves into black.

 

x

 

Dean had glanced over his shoulder, otherwise he would never have seen it.

The third rider, taking dead aim for him. And Emmanuel, throwing himself without hesitation in front of the bullet.

Dean yells, breaking away from Sam.

“ _No_ —”

He sees Emmanuel hit the ground, but his revolver is out and flashing—and within seconds, the other rider is dead.

Emmanuel’s gun slips from his grip, and his head drops to the ground, his hat falling off. Without it, he looks small, pale—red blood on his lips.

Dean runs for him, panicking.

“Shit, shit—”

 

He drops to his side, hands on his shoulders. Emmanuel’s eyes are sliding closed.

“Goddammit—Sammy!” He yells, shaking. “Help me!”

Sam’s heavy footsteps thunder behind him, Gabriel hot on his heels.

“Dean, what the hell—”

“No time,” Dean snaps. “Just come on, help me lift him—”

Gabriel raises his pistol, pointing it directly at Dean’s skull.

“Get away from him," he orders.

Dean doesn't move, staring at Gabriel. Sam looks livid, but he’s frozen as well, not close enough to intervene.

“I said back the fuck up,” Gabriel spits.

Dean tightens his grip on Emmanuel’s coat.

“I'm trying to help—”

“You've done enough,” Gabriel snarls back.

 

Dean clenches his jaw. He reluctantly backs away from Emmanuel, who's breathing shallowly, blood seeping into the dirt. Gabriel holds the gun on both of them, Dean raising his hands. As soon as they're far enough, Gabriel moves fast, pulling up Emmanuel like a rag doll, slinging one of his arms over his shoulder. Gabriel boosts him up onto his horse and within moments they've disappeared into the hills, the trail back to Ellen’s.

 

Sam breathes hard, staring at Dean. He looks unhurt, but thoroughly shaken. Sam moves toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Dean—”

Dean whirls and punches the nearest canyon wall. He yanks his hand back, hissing. Sam starts forward.

“Dean, what the _hell—”_

Dean grips his injured hand by the wrist, seething through his teeth. Blood is already welling up in his knuckles.

“That son of a bitch,” he grits. “I'm gonna kill him—”

Sam grabs Dean’s arm.

“Dean, calm down—”

“There’s no time, Sam,” Dean spits back. “We’re going after them.”

He jerks his arm away, but Sam places himself in Dean’s path.

“Just hold on a second—”

“He’s _dying_ , Sam.”

“So?”

Dean stops, looking at Sam, a strangely guilty expression on his face. Sam shakes his head.

“I don’t understand. That was Emmanuel, wasn’t it?”

The name tastes like ash in his mouth.

“Ain’t he the one who kidnapped you?” Sam continues, his tone thin. Dean wants to _help_ that bastard?

“I—Sam, I promise, I’ll explain everything later—but right now, we gotta go.” Dean’s eyes shift anxiously back to the trail. “We gotta help him.”

Sam narrows his eyes. Dean’s never been entirely above the law, he’d had to steal more than once to keep them alive, after leaving Kansas—but the whole reason he became a sheriff was to stop men like Emmanuel. Dean’s never been one to sacrifice his morals.

“Why?”

Sam remembers the yells, the call from the other shorter man, the ruthless flash of Emmanuel’s gun as he took down their attackers with hardly a hesitation.

Dean stares at him, silent. Sam narrows his eyes.

“If that man is who you say he is,” he starts slowly, “Then he deserves it.”

Dean holds up his hand.

“No, Sam—listen.”

He exhales, looking down before back up into Sam’s eyes.

“Just trust me on this,” Dean says, voice pleading.

Sam stares back at his brother, taking slow breaths. Dean would never ask something of him like this, not unless it was important. But no matter what Dean’s gone through, no matter what he’s seen—he’s never lied. Not to Sam.

“Okay,” Sam says softly. “Okay.”

The tension drains from Dean’s shoulders, and he drops his head to stare at the ground, breath spiraling silver in a long slow exhale.

“Sam—”

“Dean,” Sam pleads. “I haven’t seen you in nearly a month—I spent the whole damn time looking for you, and just—”

He takes a breath, looking Dean over—his dirt-splattered clothing, weary eyes, the tanned lines on his face.

“You look like crap,” he says, huffing out a choked laugh.

Dean blinks in surprise.

“Same to you,” he retorts. But he’s grinning, the creeping happiness of realization shining through his face. 

 

He grips the back of his coat and pulls him in.

Dean’s rough arms circle him, squeezing tightly, and that’s what tells Sam this is real, he’s finally back, he’s found his brother. Sam breaks, embracing him back. His eyes are burning, not from the harsh dust of the road. He’s found him. After weeks of worry, anger, fear that he’d never see Dean again, that he was gone for good, that he was dead—he’s here. Dean's here.

 

Dean’s grip tightens in the rough material of Sam’s coat, then he releases him. Sam takes deep breaths, fighting back tears. Dean’s eyes are red, too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Sam huffs, wiping at his eyes.

“What you got to be sorry for?”

 

Dean doesn't answer, instead shaking his head. He looks at Sam, half awed, half incredulous.

“How did you find me?” He asks. Sam laughs again.

“Dean, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“You boys done squabbling?”

 

Sam looks back—surging for a brief moment with guilt and shame. He’d almost forgotten about Bobby.

Dean is looking for the source of the noise, and sees what to him is just another rider, his face swathed in cloth.

“Who the hell is that?”

Sam turns, scrabbling up the sandy rock slope to where Bobby is lying. There’s blood on his sleeve, and Bobby is tying a makeshift rag around what appears to be a gunshot wound, face screwed up in concentration. He pulls down the bandanna covering his face, yanking the rag tight with his teeth.

Dean rushes after Sam, stopping dead.

“Bobby,” he breathes.

He looks as lightheaded as Sam feels. Everything that’s happened in the past hour—Bobby, Dean, the fight—Sam feels his nerves are so frayed one more blow might send him toppling.

Bobby sees Dean, and he’s never been one to show his feelings, but the joy that lights his face is hard not to notice.

“Dean,” he whispers. “You’re alive.”

Dean barks a harsh laugh, more out of shock than anything else.

“Damn,” he breathes. “It’s good to see you.”

Sam kneels down at Bobby’s side, but the old man shakes his head and waves him away.

“I’m sure we got a lot to talk about, boys, but now ain’t the time.”

“Bobby,” Sam says. “You’re hurt.”

“And so is your Emmanuel fella.” Sam seizes up, but Bobby continues. “I think he needs the help more than me.”

Sam looks behind him, his eyes narrowing. Dean’s face is hard, the brief happiness at seeing Bobby again vanished. But that strange vulnerability of before is back, when Dean was pleading, with everything he had, to go after Emmanuel.

Sam digs his nails into the meat of his palm, sharp points of pain grounding him.

“Fine,” he mutters.

He avoids Dean’s eyes, glaring at the bodies of the attackers, littering the canyon floor.

“What about this mess?”

Bobby stands slowly, one hand gripping his arm.

 

“No time for that now,” he grunts. “We gotta get going.”

He looks out to the end of the canyon, to the harsh red sun.

 

 

“We don’t know who may have heard us.”


	14. A Secret Revealed

The scout returns back. Luke doesn’t need to hear his report. His defeat is etched in every line of his face.

 

“Nothing,” the kid says. “Neither Abby or Uriel. I went—”

Luke silences him with a bullet to the head.

The kid drops from his saddle, sliding to the rocky ground. Tom just sniffs, adjusting his gloves. 

Luke holsters his gun, calmly returning his hands to the reins.

“Take his horse,” he orders.

The others quickly do so, ridding the bags of any useful materials and leading the horse to the back of the posse, removing it from his sight. Luke tightens his hands on the leather of the reins, breathing in deep.

Then—off to his right—a barrage of gunshots, shouting—exploding the silence.

Luke whips his head around, quickly pinpointing the noise. He sniffs like a bloodhound, baring his teeth.

“Looks like we’re back in the game, boys,” he murmurs.

Tom rides up behind him, a compass in his hand.

“Northwest,” he says, grinning, showing his tobacco-stained teeth.

 

Luke tightens his grip on the reins.

 

“Sloppy, Castiel,” he murmurs. “Sloppy.”

 

x

 

Dean busts through the door like the devil himself is behind him. Bobby and Sam follow, spilling into the doorway, bleeding, dirty, panicked and exhausted.

“Where is he?”

Anna stands, rushing towards him.

“You goddamn son of a bitch—”

Gabriel beats her to it. He socks Dean in the jaw, and he goes stumbling back into Sam.

There’s an uproar—several voices yelling, and Gabriel won’t stop cussing, at Dean, at himself, at God—swearing a blue streak at the two Winchesters.

“CAN IT!” Bobby roars, and the room falls silent. Jo is holding Anna back, holding on tightly to her arm. She’s pale and worried too, but she’s controlling it well. Gabriel is still glaring at Dean, his hands curled into fists. From behind him, Sam is watching, hand itching towards his gun in case things turn sour.

The tension in the room abruptly halts when Ellen emerges, her hands red.

Dean feels his knees buckle, and it’s a miracle he manages to stay upright.

“He doesn't look good,” Ellen whispers. “I….I don’t know if…”

“Ellen, you patched me up plenty of times,” Bobby says, looking at her uncertainly.

She shakes her head.

“This is beyond me,” she says. “He needs a doctor.”

Dean sucks in a breath.

“Sam,” he says desperately. “Sam, you gotta help him. Please.”

There’s a hand on Dean's arm, and then Sam is yanking him to the side, hissing in his ear.

“No—”

“Sam—”

“You never said shit about _me_ helping him,” Sam snaps.

Dean stares back at his brother, feeling helpless. Sam’s changed in the weeks they’ve been apart—his hair is longer, his face more tanned and lined—but there’s a hardness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Sam never refused to help a person in need. Never.

Dean tells him as much. Sam grits his teeth.

“This is the man who kidnapped you. Held you hostage for almost a month—”

“Sam, please—”

“He kept you _imprisoned_ , you could have _died_ —”

“But I didn’t!” Dean snaps. They don’t have fucking time for this, Emmanuel could be bleeding out in the next room—

But Sam has stopped, looking at Dean with a wariness that Dean doesn’t like.

“What the hell happened?” He breathes.

Sammy had always been too perceptive for his own good. Dean worries his already-ragged lip, pain stinging through him. He’d always known someday the truth was going to come out, but hell if he’s doing it in a room full of outlaws.

“Sam, I’ll tell you everything, I swear—but right now—”

He takes a deep breath, pleading.

“Sammy,” he whispers. “Please fix him.”

 

Sam looks at him for a long moment, stony-faced, not saying a word. Dean feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, but also strangely calm, even though his heart is threatening to break through his chest. Emmanuel’s not going to die. He can’t die. Everyone says so. He can’t.

 

Sam lets out a slow breath.

“Where is he?” He asks flatly.

 

Ellen indicates the back room, and Sam steps forward, his mouth in a thin line. But Gabriel plants himself squarely in his path, growling.

“He’s lyin’ in there bleedin’ because of you,” he snarls. “Both of you.”

Sam sets his jaw, but doesn’t answer. Dean bites down on his lip, hard enough that he tastes the salt and iron tang of blood. 

“I know,” he mutters.

 

Gabriel stares at them for a long tense moment, then steps back to let Sam pass. Dean follows hot on his heels, into a room that’s mostly bare, except for a bed in the center of the room. Dean stops dead when he sees Emmanuel’s limp body, all the breath leaving his lungs.

Sam grudgingly sits at Emmanuel's side, glaring back at Dean.

“Dean, this is insane.”

Gabriel narrows his eyes.

“Dean? Who the fuck is Dean?”

Dean glares at him, spreading his hands. Gabriel sinks back, his eyes flashing.

“ _That’s_ the name you decide to hide from us? Christ—”

Dean kneels at Emmanuel’s side, brushing the hair back from his forehead. He’s drenched in sweat, his face pale.

“Sam,” Dean urges.

 

Sam takes a deep breath. Then he starts to shuck his jacket, rolling up his sleeves.

Ellen had a left a tray of silver tools behind, and Sam directs Dean and Gabriel to get hot water and bandages.

“Take those, and boil them in the water,” he says quickly, indicating the haphazard array of metal.

“Why we gotta boil ‘em?” Gabriel snaps impatiently. “We don’t have time—”

“You want him to die of infection?” Sam shoots back. “Just do it.”

 

Gabriel glowers, but goes to follow the direction. Dean comes back to Emmanuel’s side, forcing back the bile rising in his throat. Ellen removed Emmanuel’s coat, but his shirt is clinging wetly to his skin, soaked dark red. Dean sets about to removing it, fingers fumbling, quickly becoming slippery with blood. He feels useless, clumsy, unable to do anything.

Sam spills the metal tools from the pot, waiting a few more agonizing minutes until they're cool enough to touch. He grabs one of them, something that looks ancient, battered, and even after boiling, covered in what Dean hopes is rust stains.

Sam leans over Emmanuel and gets to work.

 

Dean has never considered himself soft, but this is turning his stomach queasy. He refuses to leave Emmanuel’s side though, watching in a sort of horrid fascination. Gabriel looks like he might throw up.

“You’re killin’ him,” he blurts, after several minutes of horrified silence. Sam doesn’t even look up.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Gabriel clenches his jaw.

“Can’t you just leave it in him? Stop that bleeding—”

“If you want him to die,” Sam grits out. “That’s a lead bullet. We leave it in there, it’ll kill him sooner or later.”

He twists his wrist, digging the iron forceps deeper into Emmanuel’s body. Dean closes his eyes, turning his head away.

Gabriel hasn’t moved. He’s staring at Sam, his breath sharp and harsh.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers.

“If you’re not going to help, get out,” Sam snaps. “You’re distracting me.”

Dean looks up at Gabriel, shaking his head. Gabriel grits his teeth, but he moves back, not speaking another word.

Sam wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, exhaling. Dean holds his breath, his grip tightening on Emmanuel’s wrist.

“Sammy,” he whispers.

Sam shakes his head.

“The bullet’s in there deep,” he mutters. “I’ve found it—but it’s in pieces, I gotta make sure—”

He stops, eyes narrowing as he focuses back on the wound.

Dean is unable to move. He watches as Sam drags jagged pieces of metal from the tear in Emmanuel’s gut, shard after shard.

 

The last piece drops with a final echoing sound, and Sam reaches for the needle in Ellen’s set, stitching up Emmanuel’s wound with quick, deft movements. He sits back not long after, his hands tacky with blood—and that’s when Dean allows himself to breathe again.

 

Sam stands, washing his hands in the metal basin beside the bed. Emmanuel groans, his teeth clenched, eyes skittering under his lids.

Dean dabs the sweat from Emmanuel’s brow with a ragged cloth, jaw tight.

“He’ll live,” Sam says curtly. “But he’s gotta rest. I'll see if they've got anything.”

Dean waits by his side, eyes fixed on the outlaw's face. Emmanuel is muttering, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Ellen comes a moment later, uncorking an old brown bottle with a faded label. She spoons the foul-smelling liquid into Emmanuel’s mouth, and not long after he stills, settling into a heavy sleep. A collective sigh of relief washes through the room.

 

Sam crosses his arms. He's doesn't look happy, but Dean can read him, knows he's relieved the outlaw didn't die, despite all his talk from earlier.

“Someone ought to stay with him,” he murmurs.

“I will,” Dean says immediately.

Gabriel glares at him.

“And why the hell would I leave him alone with you?”

He abruptly cuts off at Dean’s look, understanding slowly dawning on his face.

“ _Seriously?_ ” Gabriel says. “Sonuva—”

“No,” Sam says sharply, glaring at Dean. “We need to talk.”

 

He grabs Dean’s arm, pulling him from the room. Dean weakly tries to protest, but stops once he sees the look on Sam’s face. He ain't getting out of this one.

Sam storms past the group clustered around the door to the room of Emmanuel’s sickbed, barely sparing a glance at their shocked faces. Dean catches a glimpse of Anna, face pale, sitting with her hands clasped, knuckles white. Jo is behind her, silent, comforting her without words.

They turn a corner, which apparently Sam deems as far enough out of earshot, because he wheels on Dean the second the others are out of sight.

 

“Talk,” he says flatly. Dean tries to circumvent.

“Sam, I don’t know—”

“You said you’d explain everything,” Sam says, cutting him off. “So explain.”

He crosses his arms, staring at Dean with hard eyes. Dean swallows. Used to be he could lie smoothly to Sam’s face, and neither of them were willin’ to deal with the effort of being honest, so Sam would just let it slide. No longer.

Dean rakes a hand through his hair, averting his eyes.

“It’s—” He takes a deep breath, letting it out in a rushing sigh. “It’s hard to explain.”

Sam is hard as stone.

“Try,” he says through gritted teeth.

 

Dean turns away from Sam, but it’s just prolonging the inevitable. He stalks back and forth, his mind churning, stewing over the events in his mind. The words are there, but they just won’t come out. Perhaps he’s afraid of what Sam will say. How he’ll judge him.

“He... _Emmanuel_ ,” Dean specifies, stuttering a little on the name. “He's an outlaw. It's true. But the stories, what they say about him—it ain't the full truth.”

Sam stares at him, incredulous.

“This is Emmanuel we’re talking about,” he says. “The most wanted man in the territory, the killer—”

“Sammy, it’s not like that—”

“He was holding you captive for _weeks.”_

Dean bites his lip, because it's the one thing he can't refute. It’s true—Emmanuel and his gang held him against his will _—_ but then Emmanuel let Dean go. He realized what he had done was wrong, and don't that count for something?

“I was looking for you,” Sam says. “The entire time. And when you didn't show with Butler, back in Creede…”

His voice breaks, and he struggles to find the words to continue. Dean digs his nails into his palms.

Sam shakes his head, letting out a long breath.

“The only thing I could do was follow you,” he mutters. “And it was hell, Dean, I can't lie to you—the things I saw, the things I did…”

Dean bites his tongue, his guilt increasing tenfold. While he was off playing outlaw, his brother had been going through hell, not knowing if Dean was alive or dead, doing god knows what to get him back—

Sam’s hazel eyes are on his, wide, anxious, but utterly honest. As if he’s worried Dean will think less of him.

As if he could. Dean knows if their places were switched, Dean would have done anything, would've turned every town upside down in the search for his brother. He can't have expected Sam to do anything less.

And Dean had spent the majority of the time lusting after one of the most wanted men in the west. The first few days, he knows—his thoughts had been consumed of nothing but Sam and escape. But as the days dragged on, and getting back to Creede seemed a farther and more distant dream, Sam occupied less and less of Dean's thoughts. And now—

His brother had crashed back into Dean's life—unexpected, brash—and everything was different. Don't get him wrong—Dean’s ecstatic to have Sam back—but some part of him had accepted his fate, accepted that he’d never see home again, and had started to come to terms with his new normal.

“We can go home, Dean,” Sam murmurs. “Leave all this behind.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean knows he can never do that. He can’t leave this behind, any more than he can leave Emmanuel behind. He turned tail from home just to warn the outlaws that Morgan was coming. He never had a choice.

“He saved our lives, Sam,” Dean says desperately.

Sam’s face shows the briefest flicker of surprise.

“Good,” he says shortly. “Then now we’re even. Let’s go.”

He takes a step forward, but Dean holds up his hands, stopping him.

“Whoa, what? Come on—”

“What, Dean?” Sam says sharply. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

Dean swallows thickly, trying so hard not to think of Emmanuel’s lips on his neck.

“He’s...good,” Dean says eventually. “He helps people. It’s not true—all the things they say about him. I don’t know how to explain it, Sam, but—” He stops, agitated. “Don’t everyone deserve a chance? Talk first, stab later, right?”

Sam crosses his arms, but doesn’t interrupt. Dean pitches with hope. Sam’s starting to crack.

“I’m not a captive anymore,” he says softly. “They were planning it, at first—ransom me out to the county—but we traveled together, fought together, and somewhere along the line…”

Dean trails off, unsure how to finish. But Sam’s eyes dawn with a sudden realization.

“Oh,” Sam says softly. “ _Oh_.”

Dean doesn’t particularly like that tone, his shoulders tensing. But Sam is nothing but understanding, and there's a slight twist to the corner of his lips, like something long-suspected had just been confirmed. Which Dean supposes, he probably just did.

 

“Well.”

Sam sighs.

“I’m not sayin’ I trust him. But if you’re vouchin’ for him, then…”

He shrugs.

“I suppose we can stay. At least ‘til he’s up and about.”

Dean nearly melts with relief.

“Thank you, Sam.”

 

Sam is eyeing him, a curious glint to his eye.

“The train, then?” He asks. “Was that really true?”

 

Dean smiles, a little proud, despite himself.

“Yeah,” he says. “It really was.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Scared the hell out of me, to be honest.”

“I talked to Creaser,” Sam says. “He put me on your trail.”

Dean nods, finding himself unsurprised. Sam always had been the better tracker, out of the pair of them.

Sam brushes a hand through his too-long hair, exhaling.

“Why don’t we see if Bobby has any whiskey in this place,” he says. “And you can tell me all about it.”

 

The inn has been cleared out of everyone, except Emmanuel’s inner circle. Ellen stands in front of the bar, filling glasses as soon as they’re empty. Bobby is nursing a glass of rye in the corner, watching the room with owlish eyes. Anna throws the two brothers a murderous look as they enter, standing quickly and stalking off towards Emmanuel’s bedroom, where presumably Gabriel is still keeping watch. Dean sighs, pulling back a chair across from Bobby.

He still can’t believe it. Bobby. _Bobby_. Out of all the places he could’ve ended up, all the things that Dean imagines had happened to him—he ends up rubbing elbows with some of the more famous outlaws in the Colorado territory.

 

Bobby takes him through the story, why he never made it back to Dean and Sam, all those years ago. Sam is mostly quiet throughout it, nodding occasionally—Bobby must’ve already told him—and then they take turns, swapping stories. Dean’s shocked to hear Sam met Morgan—but burns red with anger when Sam describes his men and the way they do business. Any doubt Dean had about alerting Emmanuel to his presence disappears.

And then it’s his turn. Dean tried and failed to explain to Sam, but the second time, the story’s straighter in his mind, and he knows how to say it. He talks, editing selectively, leaving out most of the details of what happened between him and Emmanuel. Dean talks until the windows are darkening outside, and Ellen starts lighting candles, eerie dancing shadows flickering through the main room of the inn.

Dinner is boiled mutton and hot bread, even some vegetables—damn Dean if he knows how they get vegetables up here—but it fills the emptiness in his belly and settles him somewhat, but there’s no food in the world that’ll settle the gnawing anxiety churning inside him.

 

He excuses himself, ignoring Sam’s piercing look, and the way Bobby’s silver eyebrows jump up into his hair. Emmanuel looks like he hasn’t moved since the last time Dean saw him, but Gabriel is pacing anxiously, biting at the nails of one hand.

“Oh thank god,” he says, turning at the sound of the door opening. “I was going—”

He stops, his face souring.

“Oh. It’s you.”

Dean bites at his lip.

“I can take a shift. Watch over him.”

Gabriel eyes him suspiciously.

“You want me to leave him alone with you.”

It’s not a question. But Dean tries to answer anyway, opening his mouth.

“I ain’t gonna hurt him. That’s the last thing I want to do—”

Gabriel waves away his words with an impatient hand.

“Sheriff. Dean. Whatever the hell your name is. I don’t know what fucked up thing you got going between you—” He takes a great breath, swelling up to his full height. “But I trust you about as far as I can throw you.”

Dean starts to argue, when he realizes Gabriel is entirely right. He’s got no reason to trust him.

“And if I weren’t so goddamn exhausted, I’d tell you to go to hell,” Gabriel continues impatiently.

 

Without another word, he strides towards the door, leaving Dean staring after him stupidly. He whips around, narrowing his eyes.

“If he dies on your watch, Winchester,” Gabriel says. “I’ll shoot you myself.”

 

He slams the door behind him.

“Duly noted,” Dean mutters.

 

He waits for a moment, stepping closer to the door, listening intently. He can hear the faint sounds of Gabriel retreating, the muffled sound of his voice as he talks to Ellen. But they're alone.

Dean turns, letting out a slow breath.

Someone’s covered Emmanuel with a blanket, hiding his nakedness, which Dean is glad for. He still feels skittish and unsure, hesitant of how much of this he's allowed. The man had almost died. Wouldn't be right for Dean to be oglin’ him as he was halfway to bleeding to death.

But Dean selfishly lets himself have this—sitting by Emmanuel’s side, brushing the matted dark locks from his forehead. Dean traces the lines of his brow, smoothed away in his sleep. It makes him look younger, less hardened. More...human.

Dean fusses with the blanket, the light by the bed, the old ancient latch on the window—opening it and letting a breeze roll through the stuffy room. Emmanuel does little more than murmur slightly in his sleep, still under the effects of the laudanum. Dean paces about the room, brushing a hand over the side table, a sitting chair, a old bookcase that's covered in dust. He flicks through one of the books with disinterest, wrinkling his nose at the musty-smelling pages.

 

A pained groan, and Dean looks up from the book.

Emmanuel is awake, shifting on the cot, strained breaths heaving through his lips.

Dean is at his side in an instant, planting a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, easy now.”

Emmanuel’s eyes are open, rolling wildly in their sockets.

“Son of a—”

He tries to sit up, and hisses, sucking in a breath. Dean pushes him back down—gently—shaking his head.

“Just relax,” he says. “You’re banged up pretty bad.”

Emmanuel glares up at Dean, then back down at his own body. He sees the bandages, wrapped around his torso, and he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“You just won’t let me die, will you?” He mutters.

Dean tightens his jaw, but doesn’t answer. Instead he sits next to Emmanuel, checking over the bandages.

“You didn’t pull any stitches, luckily,” he says, almost scolds, noting the absence of blood. “Sam said he would—”

Emmanuel slaps his hands away, glaring.

“I don’t need your help.”

Dean hardens.

“Fine.”

 

They glare at each other for a moment. Emmanuel drags his eyes away and gets himself up on his elbows, face twisted as he tries to get up.

Dean grips his arm, helping him straighten. Emmanuel doesn’t throw Dean off this time, but his brow darkens, sweat on his skin as he struggles against his own weakness. Dean curls his hand around Emmanuel’s waist briefly, getting him upright. Emmanuel leans against him, panting.

Dean clears his throat, but makes no effort to move from Emmanuel’s heat pressed up against his side, one hand curled into the back of Dean’s shirt.

 

Emmanuel has seemed to come to his senses, and draws back from Dean, putting as much space as possible between them on the tiny bed. It stings, but Dean doesn’t expect any less. Pulling a gun on Gabriel—wasn't something so easily forgiven. 

Emmanuel pushes back the dark hair from his forehead, skin sweaty and pale. He places a shaky hand on the bedpost and uses it to stand, legs wavering.

“Why’re you here?” He asks, voice gruff, keeping his back to Dean. “Thought you’d be long gone by now.”

Emmanuel walks with unsteady steps to the table in the corner, to the bowl of water Sam left. He doesn’t bother with a rag, but dips his hand in and splashes water on his face, droplets running down his chest and to the floor. He doesn’t seem to care.

“That man,” he says, eyes flashing uncertainly to Dean. “He’s—”

“My brother,” Dean says. “He patched you up.”

Emmanuel looks back down at his side.

“Thanks,” he says shortly. “To him, I guess.”

“You woulda died,” Dean says quietly, standing. He moves towards Emmanuel, who takes a halting step back, sucking in a breath. Dean stops.

Emmanuel’s eyes are closed, one hand bracing himself on the table.

“Hurts,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Here.”

Dean grabs the bottle of laudanum from the table, uncorking it and pouring out a measure. Sam instructed that they’d have to make sure not to give him too much, but said Em could have more when he woke up. It’d mostly likely just knock him out again. Dean’s sure he could use the sleep.

Emmanuel takes the offered spoon and quickly swallows it down, squinting at the taste.

He slowly makes his way back to the bed, sitting down heavily, waiting for the drug to take effect. Dean stands behind him, holding the bottle.

 

Emmanuel looks up. His eyes are watery, starting to glaze as the opiate slips into his bloodstream. Dean knows he’s only got a few minutes. But he has to know.

“Why’d you do it?” Dean whispers.

Emmanuel’s lips part, a pained sound escaping them.

“You know why,” he says softly.

 

Dean doesn’t remember choosing to move, but then he’s next to Emmanuel on the bed, one hand on his cheek. Emmanuel falls into him, almost in his lap, forehead dropping against his.

“I couldn’t—” Emmanuel is muttering, hand gripping at Dean’s collar. “I couldn’t let you—”

“Stupid son of a bitch,” Dean growls, voice shaking with emotion. “You almost got yourself killed.”

Dean can’t stop touching him, not to lead to anything else, not even to kiss him—just to hold Em close, to feel the soft give of his hair underneath his hand, the warm press of his pulse as Dean’s hand finds his neck. Emmanuel curls into him, sagging under the attention, eyelids slipping closed.

“Emmanuel,” Dean whispers, pressing his lips to his temple. “I know it ain’t the time, but—”

“Emmanuel,” he repeats, and the spell is broken—pushing slightly against Dean, shaking his head. “Why do you—why do you keep calling me that— _Emmanuel_ —”

Dean grabs his wrists, still worried Em might accidentally pull a stitch in the wound in his side—utterly confused by his sudden vehemence.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” He says weakly, laughing a little. “C’mon, let’s get you back in bed—”

“No, no,” Emmanuel mutters, still resolutely shaking his head. “I’m not, that’s not—”

The opiate’s gone to his head, he’s talking nonsense. Dean shushes him, trying to lay him back against the pillows—but even weakened, Emmanuel is still a force to be reckoned with.

He grabs Dean’s shirt and drags him forward. Dean is caught off balance and nearly falls on top of him, just stopping himself short. Emmanuel is staring up at him.

“Emmanuel ain’t nothing but an outlaw,” he breathes, half-crazed.

Dean waits, frozen.

Emmanuel grips at Dean’s collar, swallowing heavily.

 

“Castiel,” he whispers.

 

Dean doesn’t move.

“What?” He says shakily.

The outlaw clings on tighter. He might be slipping under, but the truth shines in those haunted eyes.

“I’m Cas,” he whispers. “Castiel.”

 

Dean’s throat is dry.

“Castiel,” he repeats, dumbfounded. “That’s...that’s your name.”

Emm— _Castiel_ —smiles, his secret revealed—and he releases Dean, sinking back against the rough horsehair pillows.

“Castiel,” he murmurs. “That’s me.”

 

Dean doesn’t move for several moments, staring at the man in front of him, his chest rising and falling softly with the motion of his breath. He feels as if his world has been shattered, and yet—nothing has changed. It had occurred to Dean, perhaps a few days into his captivity—that Emmanuel couldn’t be the outlaw’s real name. But that’s what Dean had come to know him as, associate his deadly righteousness and strange tenderness with that name, and now—

This man, fragile and lying, weakened by a bullet and the drugs in his blood—gave Dean the last real part of him. His name.

Castiel’s hand is lying limply on the bed, his eyes slipping closed—and in a moment of reckless foolishness, Dean leans forward, curling their fingers together.

 

“Cas-castiel,” he whispers, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar word. The man opens his eyes, a sliver of blue underneath drugged eyelids. Dean swallows.

“Dean,” he says, his voice wavering slightly. “Dean Winchester.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats. “Dean.”

A shiver runs through Dean, hearing his name on Castiel’s lips, finally, _finally_.

 

Castiel’s hand reaches up, and before he’s pulled under again by the opiate, his fingers brush along Dean’s cheek.

 

 

“Nice to meet you, Sheriff,” he mumbles, and his hand drops, dragged back into sleep.


	15. The End

Castiel sleeps for nearly eleven hours. When Dean knocks on his door, he’s sitting up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

It’s surprisingly human. Dean stands back in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed.

 

“How you feelin’?” He asks softly. Castiel looks up, dropping his hand, his face unreadable.

Castiel had been half-dazed with drugs and pain last night. Perhaps he was remembering, and regretting his loose lips.

“Like someone shot me,” Castiel mutters, pulling the blanket on the bed back. Dean lets out a breath of a laugh, stepping in and closing the door. Castiel gingerly swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing slightly as he pushes himself up.

“Sam said you oughta take it easy,” Dean says, moving over to him. Castiel waves him away with a hand.

“Bullshit.” He crosses to the side table, his face pinched. “Don’t have time to be lazing around.”

 

He pours some fresh water from the pitcher, gulping it greedily, before splashing it over his face and the back of his neck. He braces one hand against the edge of the table, breathing heavily. Dean clears his throat. He can’t help but be aware of Castiel’s naked torso, the bare skin glistening in the candlelight, stray drops of water rolling down a tanned shoulder.

He forces himself to watch, to not rush forward to support Castiel when he makes his way back to the bed. Dean licks his lips.

“You knew that woman,” he says.

Castiel pauses, one hand frozen on the blanket. Dean holds his breath.

“She knew you,” he says. “She called you by your name. I didn’t realize it before.”

He moves closer, giving Castiel his space. But Dean has to know.

“Castiel,” he says softly. “Why is Morgan after you?”

For a long moment, he’s silent. Then Castiel sighs.

 

He leans back against the hard pillows on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Dean slowly sits beside him, fingers just shy of the outline of his legs under the blanket.

Suddenly, Castiel speaks.

“I rode with him.”

Dean looks up.

Castiel’s face is open, honest, but pained, recalling the memory.

“For a couple years, actually. My hometown….it was devastated, after the war. And people weren’t too keen on another orphan clogging their streets,” he says, his tone turning bitter. Dean bites at his lip.

“Morgan had already established quite a reputation for himself, and it extended beyond Colorado. I heard about him and came to seek him out.” Castiel’s fingers pass absently over the cotton bandage on his side. “He was the one who got Mountain Charley, and Johnny Ringo. I’d read stories about them, and I figured I had nothin’ much to lose. One day he passed through Larimer, and said he needed volunteers to ride with him. I didn’t hesitate.”

Castiel pushes his hair back from his face, the movement for a second making him look boyish, younger, his old foolish self.

“Didn’t take me much longer to figure out the lawmen were just as bad as the outlaws in the stories. Worse in some respects. Using people who trusted them on account of the star on their lapel.”

 

 

Sam stands, his hand frozen on the doorknob. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, he really hadn’t. He’d come to check on Em—Castiel, right, that’s what Dean said his real name was—check on Castiel’s bandages and make sure the wound was healing properly. Not because he cared—in fact, Sam thinks he’d rather see the outlaw dead and buried—but Dean had asked him to save the man’s life. He wasn’t going to let Dean down.

And Sam wasn’t blind. He’d seen the looks they’d shared, the desperation in Dean’s voice when he begged Sam to dig the bullet out of Castiel’s gut. The way they move around each other now, hesitant and unsure, every time their eyes meet, something unspoken passing between them.

 

Castiel’s voice continues.

“He ruined what I thought it meant,” he says softly. “Helping people. Hunting the bad ones. Turns out most things aren’t so black and white.”

Dean chuckles lowly.

“Have to agree with you, there.”

It’s strange, hearing Dean talk to this outlaw with so much affection in his voice. Sam was fully expecting Dean to despise the man, but apparently, something had changed during their time together on the road.

Sam pulls back, knowing he shouldn't listen to any more. The moment is too intimate, too private. He walks away back down the hall, a begrudging respect for the outlaw taking root. Sam knows all too well how manipulative Morgan can be, the effect he has on those around him. And if Castiel had earned Dean’s respect and trust, well. That had to count for something.

 

 

“I kept my head down, followed orders, but I was stewing. I was getting angrier, every day, about Morgan, about his men, what they were doing to the people around them. And then it finally happened,” Castiel says softly. “What I’d been dreading.”

Dean watches him, holding his breath. Castiel’s blue eyes are unfocused.

“We ran a man off his land. There was no justice in it. Morgan told us the man was a wanted murderer. It was only afterward I found out he was lying through his teeth.”

Castiel’s jaw tightens.

“The man wanted revenge, rightfully so. Campbell, I think his name was. He found my town—and tried to put a bullet in my back.” He takes a deep breath. “Only....he found the wrong person.”

Castiel wraps a hand around his middle, closing his eyes.

“Town preacher, who’d never done a bad thing in his life. His only crime was looking a bit too much like me," he says roughly. "And Campbell gunned him down, right in the street. Because of me. Emmanuel died because of me.”

Castiel wipes at his eyes, his voice thick.

“And I’m not proud of what I did. I found him, Campbell was sitting in an inn, surrounded by all his friends—he was terrified. Thought it was a dead man come back to life. He never defended himself from the bullet I put in his heart.”

Castiel’s hand opens, closes, his fingers trembling. Dean slowly reaches out, curls his hand around Castiel’s. Castiel doesn’t move for several long moments.

“And then I ran,” he whispers. “Knew I would be wanted, so I ran down south, through La Junta, and that’s where I met Gabriel. Saved me from being arrested for stealing scraps from the local inn. And it wasn’t ‘til a couple weeks later that I started hearing the stories.”

He exhales slowly.

“The name stuck. And Castiel Novak was never seen again.”

 

He turns his palm up, slowly threading his fingers through Dean’s. Dean’s breath hitches as Castiel’s callused grip closes around his hand, overwhelmingly gentle.

“First time up at the Roost was a year or so back. Third time, I met Anna. You know the rest,” he murmurs.

Dean clears his throat, pulling his eyes back to Castiel’s face.

“I...never would’ve guessed.”

“Not as glamorous as the stories, huh?” Castiel says, lips lifting into a crooked smile.

Then he sits back, wincing. He turns his head to the side, eyes closing briefly, jaw tightening.

“Does it hurt?” Dean asks. He starts to reach for the laudanum, but Castiel stays his hand.

“No,” he says. “I mean—I don’t want anymore of that. I have to keep a clear head.”

Dean nods mutely, about to pull back. But Castiel’s hand tightens on his wrist.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “You don’t—you don’t have to pull away every time I touch you.”

 

Dean’s throat is dry.

“It’s not...I’m not…” He takes a deep breath. “It’s just...it’s not somethin’ I’m used to.”

Castiel smiles softly at that.

“Then let’s fix that,” he murmurs.

He leans in, slowly capturing Dean’s lips in a kiss. Dean breathes into it, sighs, opens his eyes to see Castiel opposite him, lids just barely closed. Dean looks in a way he’s never allowed himself to look before—at the sharp angle of Castiel’s jawline, the bell curve of his lips, his bottomless eyes. Dean’s hand comes to Castiel’s face, fingers over his forehead, down, over the thin white scars through his eyebrow. Castiel exhales, almost aching, as if he’s been waiting for this for a long time. Dean wonders the last time he had a kind word or a soft touch.

Castiel presses against Dean again, one hand dropping to his waist, gripping gently at the flesh there.

Dean wants to shy away, almost feels naked under the slow touches Castiel is giving him. What happened against the abandoned cabin was nothing like this, yet this feels far more intimate, Castiel twining his fingers through Dean’s hair, one strong hand gripping at his back.

“Castiel,” Dean murmurs. The name makes him shiver, so Dean does it again, whispering softly against his mouth, sharing words and sharing breath, Castiel’s touch leaving flames in their wake. Dean inhales, presses his body against Castiel’s—and Castiel hisses, pulling back slightly.

 

Dean immediately snatches his hands back, shaking his head.

“Shit—I—I hurt you, did I—”

“No—” Castiel grips Dean’s arm, shaking his head. “I—”

He takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly.

Then Castiel moves forward, sinking his forehead against Dean’s.

“I want to touch you,” he murmurs. “But I don’t know if I can.”

 

 

Dean just holds still for a moment, but then he kisses Castiel again, pushing him gently on the shoulder, back against the pillows.

“Lie back,” Dean whispers.

Castiel goes willingly, watching Dean with wide, dark eyes. Dean moves up the bed, taking a deep breath. He straddles Castiel’s legs, sitting back, and reaches for the buttons on his shirt.

Castiel is completely silent as he watches Dean vest himself of his rough cotton shirt, his belt, then everything else.  

The room is warm, the air thick, but Dean feels goosebumps as he moves towards Castiel, breath coming faster. Castiel stares back, his gaze almost hungry. But he doesn’t move, fists clenching against the sheets as he waits for Dean to come to him.

Careful to avoid the bandages on his side, Dean brings Castiel’s face in his hands again, kissing him long and deep. Castiel is overwhelmed, but responds, one hand wrapping around Dean, the other fumbling downward.

 

At the first close of a hand around his cock, Dean hitches forward, breathing in sharply. Castiel kisses him through it, hand slowly moving up and down until Dean is nearly crying out, muffling his sounds and groans against Castiel’s lips.

There’s white petroleum in the medicine bag, by the door, and it makes the slide easier, slick heat between them that makes Dean ache to move fast, hard—but he forces himself to go slow, to move against Castiel gently, every move deliberate to bring him pleasure, and not pain.

Castiel moves against him, eyes almost closed. His right hand clasps to Dean’s neck, fingers occasionally brushing through the short hairs at the base of his skull.

Dean kisses him, then sits back, pulling at Castiel’s arm.

“What are you doing?” He murmurs, his voice hoarse. Dean shushes him, lying down in front of him.

“Trust me,” he whispers.

And Castiel does. He lets Dean arrange them, Dean’s back to Castiel’s front. Dean pushes himself back up against Cas, conscious of his injury, gently tugging on his wrist.

Castiel understands, and wraps his arm around Dean, his body a warm solid line against Dean’s back. His head drops to Dean’s nape, his hair curling, tickling sweaty skin.

Dean reaches back, shifting, adjusting so Castiel slips in between his thighs, and Castiel gasps, one hand gripping Dean’s hip, exhaling raggedly against Dean’s neck. Dean arches back, tightening his thighs.

They begin to move, soft and slow at first, Castiel’s breath hitching, cooling Dean’s feverish skin. He presses his lips to Dean's neck, a bitter bite of sorrow to the sweetness of his kisses—because they both know this could be the first, and the last time.

Castiel rolls against him with slow long movements, Dean groaning as Castiel’s hand finds Dean’s cock, slippery and hot. They move together, at the same tortuous pace in an imitation of the act that Dean wishes they had the time and the strength for—and he’s surprised to find he’s thinking—

_Soon._

 

Castiel is breathing sharply in his ear.

“Dean,” he pants. “Dean—”

 

He groans, hips grinding dirtily against Dean’s.

“I know,” Dean murmurs. “I know.”

He reaches up, grasping at Castiel, kissing him until Dean feels a warm stickiness between his thighs. They slowly breathe together, shuddering as they come to stillness.

 

Castiel is trembling. Dean turns, opens his arms, and lets Castiel be held this time. Castiel curls against Dean, closing his eyes, one hand coming to settle on Dean's neck, shaking slightly. Dean drags his fingers through Castiel's dark hair, slow and soft, until Castiel's breath evens out into the rhythm of sleep. Only then does Dean let his eyes close, tightening his arms around Castiel.

Soon after, he drifts off too.

 

 

x

 

Dean’s rinsing out some of Castiel’s bandages when he hears the commotion from down the hall. He drops the cloth and opens the door to the hall, frowning. Someone’s shouting, and then there comes the even louder argument from the front parlor. Dean is furious. Don’t they know what happened to Castiel? He needs rest, not yelling that’ll surely pull him from much-needed sleep—

He stomps down the hallway, ready to give whoever it is a piece of his mind—when a name stops him in his tracks.

“Morgan,” Bobby says, shaking his head. “He’s found us.”

“How is that possible—”

“Must’ve heard us squabbling in the canyon. Only explanation for it. It may be a maze, but sound carries. I’d be surprised if they _didn’t_ hear us.”

Dean is still unable to move, frozen at the end of the hall. Ellen, Bobby, Jo—everyone is clustered in the main room of the inn, all talking over each other. There’s someone Dean doesn’t recognize behind Bobby’s shoulder, a man with a thick beard, covered in dirt and sporting a bloody lip.

 

“We went to the place where Bobby said, to take care of those bodies,” the man says, shaking his head. “They were waiting for us.”

“You did everything you could, Asa,” Ellen says gently, placing a hand on his arm.

“We gotta get him out of here.”

Dean has broken out of his fog, and hurries down the hall, all voices stopping as every eye turns to him. “We have to move C—Emmanuel. He’s what Morgan is after.”

“You sure?” Bobby asks, grey eyebrows knitting together. Dean nods.

“We’ve been running from him for months. We’ll just run again,” he says. But Ellen waves a hand.

“He can’t be moved, the ride will kill him.”

Dean opens his mouth, but she cuts him off again.

“You may be willing to risk it, boy, but most of us aren’t. I suspect that brother of yours will tell you the same thing once you propose that fool plan of yours.”

She turns, a steely look in her eye.

“Jo, Asa. Run out and tell everyone. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

“What?” Dean and Jo say at the same time. Ellen reaches behind the bar, pulling out a shotgun and cocking it.

 

“Emmanuel can’t be moved, but that doesn’t mean we can’t.” She once again turns to Asa. “Twenty minutes. Tell them to bring only what they can carry. Go. Now!”

The man doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out the door and down the street, hollering up a storm to anyone in earshot. Jo is turning red.

“You can’t just expect us to run away—”

“That is not what is happening here—”

“I’m not going to leave someone to die! Not when I can stay and fight,” Jo says.

“Joanna Beth Harvelle, this is not a discussion.” Ellen stares down her daughter, fire in her eyes. “If you stay here, you will die. I’m not going to let that happen.”

Jo glares at her mother, fists clenched. Ellen tosses the shotgun towards her and Jo catches it, still fuming.

“Twenty minutes,” Ellen says firmly. “Go.”

 

With one last look at the group, Jo takes off running, her eyes wet with tears.

Bobby disappears and reemerges not ten seconds later, an old leather knapsack in his hands. Dean looks up.

“Bobby?”

The old man’s eyes are sad.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he says. “There are at least thirty people here, and they look to Ellen. To me. We’re gonna keep ‘em safe.”

He starts gathering things and shoving them into the pack. Ellen is similar, moving at a breakneck speed, as he and Anna stand there, dumbfounded.

“You’re just going to abandon us here?” Anna whispers. “After everything?”

“Hey.”

Ellen stops, staring her square in the eye.

“Ain’t nobody abandoning anybody. It’s a free invitation. It’s your choice whether you stay or go.” Ellen pauses to spare a glance down the hall.

“And I ain’t got nothing against Emmanuel,” she says. “Not anymore. But there’s a bigger picture here.” She whistles to Bobby, who ties the pack closed and heaves it on his shoulder, stepping in behind her.

“You comin’, Dean?”

Anna whips her head, eyes narrowing. Dean takes a deep breath.

“No, Bobby,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

 

Some of the tension drains from Anna’s shoulders. She slumps back, dropping her head. Bobby sighs.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he grumbles. He lowers the pack from his shoulder, stepping forward.

“Here.”

Bobby hands Dean a box of rim-fire cartridges, 44 caliber. He doesn’t say anything else, pulling Dean into a brief, one-armed hug.

“Sorry that this goodbye is so soon,” he says gruffly, avoiding Dean’s eyes.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Dean says, desperate.

Bobby looks to Ellen, who stares back, something unspoken passing between them.

Bobby shakes his head.

“Sorry, kid.”

 

Then they’re gone, and just like that, Bobby is out of Dean's life, leaving him. Again.

 

Dean quietly lets the anger burn inside him, resisting the urge to throw something. Anna is frozen by his side, staring at him.

“What do we do?” Her eyes dart back and forth. “What do we _do_?”

Dean looks down at the box of shells in his hand.

 

He slowly pulls his revolver from its holster, clearing his throat.

“We fight.”

 

x

 

Sam and Gabriel appear not long after, looking windswept and frantic—they’ve already heard the news and rushed back. Now they are all standing around the bar, staring at each other, at a loss.

 

Dean moves to one of the front windows and pushes aside the thin lace curtain, looking out onto the street. Half an hour ago, it looked like any other city—small—but a city nonetheless. Now it might as well be a ghost town.

Everyone cleared out—took a back trail that Ellen knew—and out to what was hopefully safety. Dean drops his head. If they can’t stop Morgan, they’ll just be sitting ducks. They’ll carve through Emmanuel’s crew and then proceed to wipe out anyone who ever helped him.

“Shit,” Dean curses under his breath.

 

Gabriel emerges from one of the back rooms, throwing down a Winchester rifle onto the table in front of them, adding to the small stockpile of weapons they’ve been gathering.

“That’s everything,” he says grimly.

Anna’s lips are thin.

“It’s not nearly enough.”

“Don’t miss then,” Gabriel says snidely.

 

She ignores him, instead turning her steely gaze to the windows, eyes narrowing.

“This ain't a good spot.”

Anna points across the street, to a building with a second story, with high thin windows.

“Better ambush point,” she says. “You can see the east end of the valley from the second floor, and we’ll have the higher ground.”

Gabriel nods tersely.

“Better get movin’ then.”

 

Castiel is looking stronger, but his face is still drawn and pale. He leans on Gabriel for support as they slowly walk out the front doors and into the street. Dean hovers behind them, ready to rush forward at the first sign that Castiel needs assistance.

Sam follows, shotgun slung over his shoulder, head turning warily back and forth. Anna has the second bag of weapons, her face grim.

 

They bang open the front door, and of course, the house is deserted. They set up in the empty living room and Gabriel starts boarding up the nearest window, hammering it shut quickly and moving on to the next one. Castiel eases into a chair, gritting his teeth.

“Still think you oughta go, Cas,” Dean says softly.

“He can’t ride out of here, not with that wound,” Gabriel snaps.

“Well, if he can’t ride, he can’t fight,” Dean argues back.

“Who said I couldn’t fight?” Castiel mumbles.

“I said.”

They all look at Sam. Sam crosses his arms.

“You try to pull some fancy gun work, you’ll rip those stitches right open,” Sam says, looking directly at Castiel. “Then who knows what’ll happen to you.”’

Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam had shown nothing but hard indifference towards Castiel so far, or at the very least wary suspicion. Now it almost sounds like Sam cares whether Castiel lives or dies.

 

A shuffle of footsteps and the stomp of boots has Dean whirling around, whipping out his pistol. The three men in the doorway freeze, the first one raising his hand.

“Whoa, whoa!” He says. “Don’t shoot.”

Dean slowly lowers his gun, glaring at them. He recognizes the two men in the front, from around the town, and the small skinny kid behind them. Gabriel scowls, stepping forward.

“Mackey. Caleb.” He shakes his head. “What the hell you still doin’ here?”

The one in the front, Mackey, speaks, his beady eyes scanning the room.

“Heard y’all were takin’ a stand. Heard Emmanuel was going to face Morgan down. We ain’t missin’ that.”

“And we have no part in your fight,” the other says. “They won’t harm us.”

The boy behind them doesn’t look so sure. His eyes keep darting back and forth, his face pale.

“Fools.”

Castiel slowly pushes himself up, staring the men down with eyes of ice.

“These are men with no mercy,” he says lowly. “No morals, no god. They will cut you down simply for standing in their way.”

The smiles from the men’s faces have faded, and the fat one looks nervous. The kid behind them looks like he might die from fright.

Castiel looks the first man dead in the eye.

“You stay here, and you will die.”

 

There’s a beat where none of them speak.

The younger boy looks between the others, then turns and runs, back out the door and out of sight.

“Smart kid,” Castiel mutters.

 

He turns, grabbing up a Colt from the table. Dean grips Castiel's wrist, shaking his head.

Anna, Gabriel and Sam continue to prepare, ignoring the other two men. They stand their in stupid protest, staring at the outlaws.

“This is our land,” Mackey says hotly. Gabriel barely spares him a glance.

“Your funeral.”

 

Anna locks the front door, closing and bolting the shutters, but it won't nearly be enough. Gabriel has boarded up every crack and cranny, leaving only thin slots for him to poke his gun through. Dean guides Castiel back to his chair, plying him with gentle touches and soft words, then turns, ready to take up his post by the other window. But Castiel grabs Dean’s hand.

“You should leave too,” he says urgently, staring up at Dean. “He only wants me.”

“Stop it, Cas,” Dean says firmly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Castiel sets his jaw, his face grim.

“One more time, for the record,” Sam says blithely. “This is suicide.”

“I'm not leaving, Sammy.”

_I'm not leaving him._

Sam doesn't look happy about it, but he just sighs, shaking his head.

“And you're mad if you think I'm leaving you to fight this alone.”

“Sam—”

“Came all this way to get you, didn't I?” Sam says, shrugging. "I got your back, Dean."

Dean looks at his brother, a strange warm but melancholy feeling swelling in his chest. Sam mirrors it in his own small sad smile, before turning to look back out the window.

 

And then there's nothing to it but to wait.

 

Gabriel stands by the window, peeking out every few minutes. Dean sits next to Castiel. They don’t say a word. Castiel is breathing heavily, favoring his right side. Dean places a hand on his thigh. Castiel doesn’t speak, just curls a hand around Dean’s wrist. Anna is nursing a bottle, her eyes staring off into space. Sam stands still as a statue, his arms crossed. The other two men have found a seat in the corner, lighting cigarettes, not speaking.  

 

“They’re coming,” Gabriel says tersely.

He steps back, cocking the shotgun. Anna grabs the belt of ammunition and her pistol, and disappears up the stairs. With any luck, she’ll be able to pick them off they ride in, one by one.

 

Castiel has gone white.

“Dean,” he whispers. “I—”

Dean grabs his hand, shaking his head.

“Whatever it is you’re about to say, save it.”

The other hand goes to Castiel’s face, Dean cupping his jaw.

“No apologies, no blame,” he says softly. “I chose this.”

Castiel stares at him, breathless.

“I chose to stay with you,” Dean murmurs. “I ain’t gonna leave.”

Castiel dips forward and captures his lips in his kiss, both hands coming to Dean’s face, pain and fear and frustration spilling out between them. Dean presses their foreheads together, breathing heavily.

“I’m never going to leave,” he breathes.

Castiel’s eyes are closed, his fingers digging into the back of Dean’s neck.

“Hey.”

 

They reluctantly break apart, Sam tossing Dean another gun.

“Last chance to get out of this,” he mutters.

“No way in hell, Sammy,” Dean grits out.

 

Mackey and his friend seem nervous, but are making no moves to defend themselves. Caleb stubs his cigarette out on the table, looking pale.

 

A crack of a shot shatters the silence, causing them all to flinch. Gabriel hurries to the window, sucking in a breath.

“One down already,” he mutters. “Damn, she’s good.”

 

A series of shots follows, as the sound of horses’ hooves thunder closer. Dean throws himself back up against the wall, a shotgun in his hands, waiting for the riders to come into view.

Another crack—Anna’s pistol, and a barrage of shots shatters the air, spiked by the sound of splintering wood and shattered glass. They cower until it stops, and Gabriel slowly lifts his head, staring upstairs.

Silence.

 

Dean doesn’t dare to breathe. Castiel is silent.

Then, from outside, a voice.

 

 

 

“Emmanuel!”

 

 

Dean darts a glance over to Castiel’s face.

“We know you’re in there,” the voice continues. “Come on out.”

Three pairs of eyes, trained on Castiel’s frozen form. Only when a clatter of noise from upstairs come do they look away—Anna. She comes down the stairs, blood running from a cut on her temple. She leans heavily against the banister, shaking her head.

“No, Em,” she whispers. “Don’t.”

 

The man outside gets impatient.

“Come out _now,_ and surrender. We promise we won’t harm ya.”

Dishonesty drips from every word. Dean tenses as Castiel starts to stand, wincing a little. Dean moves to his side, supporting his arm.

 

Mackey looks at his friend, and he stands too.

“We’re comin’ out,” he calls. “Don’t shoot.”

He unhooks his pistol from his belt, and Caleb does the same. They walk to the front door, unlocking it without so much as a backward glance. Gabriel hisses.

The two men walk out, their hands raised. Anna backs up, makes sure that she can’t be seen through the open door. Dean licks his lips, his throat dry. He can see at least three riders, lined up in front of the steps that lead out into the street. The one in the middle drops his hand to his belt, his face covered in shadow.

Mackey and Caleb set their weapons out on the porch, standing slowly, hands still in the air.

“Which one of you’s Emmanuel?” One of the men calls.

“None of us,” Mackey replies. “We ain’t their men. Don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em.”

The riders exchange a look. The man at the front of the pack smiles slowly.

 

The guns all start firing at once. It only takes about ten seconds before Mackey and Caleb are both falling down, dead.

 

Gabriel shrinks back from the front door, swearing harshly. Sam is covering his mouth with his sleeve.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

 

Anna’s face has turned to stone. She’s motionless, fingers white on her gunstock.

Dean stands slowly. Dust is swirling around the floorboards, crimson-red blood trickling down the cracks towards his boots.

 

“Now,” Anna whispers urgently. Dean whips out a hand.

“Anna, wait—”

But he’s too late. She’s darting forward, seizing the detonator, squeezing the trigger.

Fifteen hidden sticks of dynamite lined with black powder blow at once—sending the square into chaos. Dean scrambles for cover, ducking just as the bullets start flying. He scrambles back under the window ledge, glass shattering above him. Horses are shrieking, Gabriel sending bullets back as fast as he can.

“Split off,” Anna calls, and then she’s running and ducking out the back door. Gabriel and Sam immediately bolt too, and Dean pulls his revolver from its holster, shoving himself up.

 

Shit. The split plan is risky—mostly because it involves leaving Castiel as a sitting duck—he’d stay, safe, out of sight, and the movement of the four of them, through back alleys and side doors, sending shots as they ran—it would convince the Marshal that him and his men were surrounded, and then they wouldn’t know which way to turn.

Dean crouches, ready to move into position—cocking the revolver with his thumb. He catches sight of Castiel, eyes trained on him, and stops, breathing heavily.

But Castiel just shakes his head.

 _Go,_ he mouths.

 

Dean grits his teeth, and nods grimly. Then he’s out and running down the back steps, leaping the last few feet and hitting the dirt running.

He throws himself behind a stack of half-rotted barrels, peering out at the chaos in the street.

There’s a horse on it’s back, struggling to right itself—several other riders struggling to regain control of the animals—a few finding cover as well, answering bullet for bullet. Anna must’ve found another spot already, because shots are echoing faster than Dean can follow, barely one missing their mark.

A rider falls back off his saddle and is still. Dean grips his own gun, slippery in his palm. He aims and scans those who are still standing, one eye sliding closed to give him a better shot.

And his blood runs cold.

 

In the middle of the square— a tall rider who is eerily still, despite the chaos raging around him. Dean’s only seen the man once, and that was through a thicket of trees—but he has no doubt who is across from him now.

The rider slowly turns his head, seeming to be searching for something, peering out from underneath his pale hat.

 

Dean ducks as a stray bullet rips through his makeshift barricade, whistling right past his ear. He answers with his own round of blind shots, scrambling to get clear of danger while still being able to see the fight continuing. He darts out into a twisting alley, running back to Ellen’s inn. One of Morgan’s men gives chase, but Dean drops him with two quick shots. He doesn’t dare stay to see whether his aim was any good, but instead continues to the back of Ellen’s inn, breaking one of the windows with his elbow and scrambling inside. Dean sends a silent prayer that Ellen’ll forgive him—or better, never find out—and as soon as he has a view of the outside street, he starts shooting. The new direction of the bullets sends Morgan’s men scattering. They must have dropped at least half of them already—and Dean’s heart leaps.

They might actually get out of this.

 

x

 

Upper right window, the girl. Most deadly with a pistol, she’d only missed twice so far.

Lower left alley, by the blacksmith. The fat one. He wouldn’t last long, he’s sure of it.

Two he doesn’t recognize—both in strategic positions, opposite each other, boxing them in. Trapping them, like they’re in a cage.

But Morgan’s pale eyes have never stopped moving.

 

There, the two dead men. The fools who thought they might see something like mercy. When they’d come out, their hands raised, one of them had looked back, as if at someone hidden inside…

Morgan sets his eyes on the ruined doors, his eyes flaring, teeth bared in a smile.

 

x

 

Castiel has never liked to hide.

And he hates it now. Hates sitting here as screams and shots echo around him—screams that might belong to his friends—as he does nothing. _Useless_.

 

More yells—and the shrieking of terrified horses—a voice that might be Sam’s, calling for his brother—and Castiel clenches his fists, gritting his teeth.

“Screw this.”

 

Castiel shoves himself up, ignoring the pain in his side. They took his gun from him, damn bastards—as if that would really stop him—but he’s got his knife, and he pulls it from his belt now, turning to the front door. Castiel starts forward, feet a little unsteady—not really sure of his plan. To join the middle of a gunfight carrying nothing but a knife is downright suicidal, but his only other option seems to be sitting and waiting for death.

Castiel spins the knife back and forth a few times, experimentally. His hands have stayed limber, at least. The bullet had robbed him of his strength—he’d have to do with cunning.

Chances are, if he faces any of Morgan’s men one-on-one, he won’t live to tell the tale.

 

A man steps through the shattered doorway, and Castiel freezes in his tracks.

Morgan grins.

“Hello, Castiel.”

 

Castiel bolts forward, lifting the knife.

“Uh-uh.”

Morgan trains his Colt on Castiel, eyes narrowing.

“Back up,” he orders. “And drop it.”

Castiel slowly crouches down, laying the knife on the ground. He moves slow, partly so that Morgan won’t do anything stupid, and partly because the pain in his side is building, twisting his gut into red hot wires.

Castiel supposes he should be flattered that Luke is still scared of him.

 

Morgan circles closer, grinning down at him, teeth white and pointed.

“Been lookin’ for you a long time, Cassie boy. Or should I say Emmanuel?”

He laughs, gesturing at Castiel with the gun.

“Still mourning that man of God? I tell ya, Campbell didn’t _mean_ to shoot him, he really didn’t—”

“Shut your mouth,” Castiel hisses.

Luke stops, all traces of mirth disappearing, leaving his eyes black and cold.

“Temper, Castiel,” he mutters. “It always did get you into trouble.”

Luke steps forward, the barrel of his pistol just barely touching Castiel’s chest.

“Besides. If anyone deserves to be angry around here—”

He seizes Castiel by the throat and slams him to the ground. Castiel shoves back—but freezes when the gun’s cold metal presses against his temple.

 

“It’s me,” Luke hisses. He turns his head to the side, just enough so the jagged scar on his neck is visible.

“You remember when you shot me, don’t you, Castiel?”

Castiel glares back at him, breathing hard through his nose. Luke laughs softly at his furious expression, one hand coming to tap underneath Castiel’s chin.

“Caught me by surprise, I must admit. And you continue to surprise me at every turn.” He tsks, shaking his head. “A wanted outlaw.”

“Only because you blackened my name from here to the Mississippi,” Castiel snarls back.

“But it’s not even your _name_ ,” Luke says. “You could have disappeared, but instead you took a dead man’s name and did everything you could to bring me down. It’s so goddamn noble it makes me sick.”

“You’re one to talk,” Castiel hisses. _“Lucifer.”_

Pain blossoms underneath Castiel's right eye, and his head hits the floor behind him, his eye throbbing. Luke hisses in his face.

“I told you never to say that name,” he growls. He presses the barrel of the gun to Castiel’s cheek again. In doing so he jostles Castiel’s side, and Castiel sucks in a deep breath, nearly crying out.

Luke pauses, sharp eyes missing nothing.

 

“What’s this?”

 

He draws back, eyeing Castiel’s side, the bandages, the blood that’s already soaking through.

Luke chuckles.

“Came all the way out here to kill you and looks like someone’s already done the job for me.”

He seizes Castiel’s side, striking as quick as a snake. Castiel gasps, white hot pain stabbing through him.

Luke laughs, sour breath hissing through his teeth.

“I was worried I might have to kill you to bring you in. Don’t think that’ll be an issue anymore. Bounty’s $25,000 for you alive. Only fifteen dead.”

Castiel breathes harshly, his hands curling, grasping at the front of Morgan’s coat. Though his head is throbbing, vision hazing over from the pain, he tightens his grip, shifting his weight slightly.

Luke grins down at Castiel, hand raising to attack him again.

Castiel grips the back of Luke’s neck and hits him with the crown of his head, square in the nose.

 

Luke staggers back and Castiel’s already on his feet and moving—though his body screams in protest. He gets three good hits before Luke regains his footing—he grabs Castiel’s arm and throws him backward, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Castiel whirls, trying to shove himself up—and a shot explodes next to his ear, temporarily deafening him. Castiel drops to his knees, ears ringing.

A hand grabs his collar and jerks him up, Luke’s revolver flashing silver—

Castiel seizes his wrist, his arm shaking with the effort. Luke snarls at him, fighting to twist from Castiel's grip.

“Maybe I will have to kill you after all,” he hisses.

Castiel feels his knees starting to buckle, but he takes a deep breath, meeting Luke's eyes.

“Go to hell,” he snarls.

 

He wrenches the gun out of Luke’s grip, rolling and aiming as soon as he’s free, pulling blindly at the trigger.

One, two, three shots and the chamber’s empty—Castiel tosses the gun aside and starts towards Luke, when a wave of nausea rushes over him, and he stumbles to his knees, fighting to breathe.

 

Castiel’s skin is cold, clammy—his breath comes rapid and shallow, and he’s seeing double. Luke’s legs weave in from the side, into his vision, something flashing in his hand.

“And here we are again, Castiel.”

He places the tip of Castiel’s knife underneath his chin.

“This time, I don’t think you’ll escape.”

“Cas!”

Castiel barely has time to react, to scream, to shout him away—before Dean is darting through the door, throwing something towards him across the floor. Castiel reaches a hand out—

Luke stops the gun with his foot, the metal hissing to a halt. Castiel’s heart drops.

A small smile spreads across Luke’s face, and he turns to Dean, who has a horrified look on his face.

“Much obliged.”

He kneels swiftly and picks up the revolver, pointing it at Dean, who backs up, frightened, his hands in the air.

Castiel’s heart is pounding.

He’s going to die. Here and now. With Luke Morgan’s sneering face above him.

 

The Marshal turns back to Castiel, smiling.

“Goodbye, _Emmanuel_.”

 

He aims the gun, and pulls the trigger.

 

It clicks.

 

Luke stares down at the gun for a moment, in shock. Castiel’s instincts tell him to move, scream at him, _go._

Luke realizes it a second after Castiel. He whips his head around—but he’s too late—Dean is already right there, seizing Luke and slamming him to the ground.

When Castiel finally pulls Dean back, he grips to his arm. Luke’s head lolls, his chest heaving. His nose is dripping blood, his pale hat ripped from his head, ugly bruises starting to purple the side of his face.

Dean pulls the Colt from his belt, pointing it directly at Luke.

He grins back at them, through bloodied teeth.

“Won’t fall for the same trick twice, boy,” he says, spitting red flecks of foam.

 

Dean turns, aims, and the window above Luke shatters. Luke flinches.

Dean points the gun back at him, steel in his eyes.

“Ain’t no trick.”

 

Luke stares back at him, breathing heavily, but does not speak.

 

Behind him, Castiel staggers.

“Cas!” Dean calls, not looking away from the Marshal in front of him.

“Castiel!” Dean yells again, sounding panicked.

Castiel waves him off.

“I’m fine, I’m—”

Castiel drops to one knee, coughing. Dean doesn’t dare tear his eyes away from Luke, but he can hear the thick, harsh sounds of Castiel’s breath, and he knows it’s bad.

“Castiel,” Dean orders. “You answer me.”

“It's okay,” Castiel waves him off. “You watch him.”

 

At that moment, Gabriel busts through the door, Anna following a second later. Dean doesn’t move, but his heart spikes, a sudden bright burst of hope.

“Help him,” Dean snaps, not taking his eyes off Luke, who’s slumped back against the wall, watching them through yellowed eyes.

“Behind me,” Dean says, trying to make sure his voice doesn’t shake.

 

Gabriel curses, and rushes to Castiel’s side. Dean can hear him helping Castiel stand, whispering urgently. Anna slowly walks up beside Dean, staring at Luke.

“Is that him?” She asks softly. Dean nods. She lifts her revolver, features hardening.

“Then let’s end it. Right now.”

“No.”

Dean shakes his head, throwing her a brief but desperate glance.

“We can’t kill him. We need him alive if people are going to know the truth.”

“The truth,” Luke mocks. “When did that do anyone any good?”

“Can I at least hit him?” Anna says through gritted teeth.

 

A groan comes from behind them, and Dean’s reminded of Castiel, and how desperately he needs help.

“Sam—where’s Sam?”

“I’m here.”

Sam is coming slowly up the steps, cradling one arm in the other. Dean’s shoulders sag in relief, but his heart still gives an anxious leap when he sees the red staining Sam’s sleeve, the awkward angle at which he’s holding his arm.

“Sammy—”

Dean curses.

“Shit, what happened?”

Sam shakes his head, gritting his teeth.

“I’ll be fine. But I don’t know how much help I can be without use of my fingers,” he says. “And he needs help. Now.” He indicates Castiel, who’s growing paler with every second, his eyes starting to close.

“Ellen,” Anna says. “She was a nurse in the war.”

“We can’t take him down the mountain,” Gabriel says.

“No,” Anna replies. “The second outpost isn’t too far—we have to try it.” She looks around. “We’ll need three of us to carry him.”

 

They all stand, still.

 

“I’ll hold him,” Dean says.

“Dean—”

“Sam,” Dean says firmly, turning to meet his eyes. “Just go.”

They stare at each other for a moment, neither willing to back down. Luke spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

“Well,” he rasps. “This is touching.”

“Shut it,” Dean snarls.

“Sam Winchester,” Luke says, sneering. “What an expected disappointment.”

Sam turns to Luke, glaring down at him.

“If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you myself.”

 

Anna and Gabriel both support Castiel, slinging his arms over their shoulders. Castiel is ghost-white, almost unconscious.

“Dean,” he breathes.

“Get him out of here,” Dean says, his voice cracking. “Patch him up.”

Sam doesn't move.

“Dean, I’m staying with you.”

“No, Sam.”

“Dean—”

“You go with him.”

Dean turns, looking at all three of them.

“Make sure he doesn’t die,” he says.

He meets Sam’s eyes, and his voice drops, almost pleading.

“Make sure he doesn’t die,” he whispers.

 

Sam stares at Dean for a long moment, but then nods, understanding.

 

He joins Anna and Gabriel and they disappear out the door, into the street and out of sight.

“So.”

Luke leers.

“Who are you?”

 

Dean ignores him, stepping back until he's at a safe distance. The man in front of him doesn't look like he's got the energy for much fight left, but Dean can't be certain. The man was known as dangerous for a reason.

“Ohhh, I know who you are. Dean Winchester. The annoying thorn in my side. Your little Sammy wouldn't stop whining about you.”

Dean takes check of himself, taking a slow breath. His legs are wobbling slightly from exhaustion, there's a slice through his arm from some broken glass that will have to be dealt with—but otherwise he's fine. Dean lowers the gun slightly, confident that he'll be able to keep Morgan in check.

“Then again, I suppose I ought to thank you,” the Marshal muses, lips twisting. “Never woulda found Emmanuel if it weren't for you. And your damn brother.”

“Talk all you want,” Dean says. “I ain't listening.”

“Ah, don't be sour, Winchester,” Morgan says. His lips are hideously red. “I know when I'm beat. Just a shame I couldn't collect your bounty, too.”

That gives Dean pause.

“What’re you talking about?”

Morgan laughs.

“You mean you don't know?”

 

He reaches into his jacket and Dean bolts up, gesturing the pistol at him.

“Hey.”

Morgan raises the hand.

“Easy, cowboy.”

He pulls out a ragged and wrinkled piece of paper, throwing it at Dean’s feet. Dean looks down at it for a moment, then warily picks it up, unfolding the ripped paper.

It's him. Or at least it looks like him. A rough sketch of Dean's face, and his name— _his name—_ emblazoned underneath. And a reward for his capture, alive or dead.

“What did Castiel do? Tell you some sob story?”

Morgan chuckles. “And now you're a wanted man, too. Your brother never mentioned you were a criminal.”

“I'm not,” Dean snaps. Morgan bares his teeth.

“Yet here we are.”

“It ain't even a good picture,” Dean mumbles.

“Enough to bring you in,” Morgan says cryptically.

Dean lets the poster drop to the floor, turning his attention back to the Marshal.

“Yeah? How do you figure?”

Morgan laughs, a horrible choking sound.

“You think I was stupid enough to bring all my men with me? Oh no.”

Dean feels a chill run down his spine.

 

“Left a second group to follow us,” Morgan says. “If they didn’t hear back within three hours.”

Morgan slides his head to the side, looking out the window, his eyes fading slightly.

“Should be here any second.”

He starts laughing, laughing and laughing.

Dean starts forward.

“You son of a bitch—”

Morgan keeps laughing, blood bubbling at his lips. Dean stops in his tracks, staring in horror as Morgan’s laughs slowly turn to choking breaths, his face bone-pale.

“Well,” he says softly. He draws back the side of his jacket, revealing a dark red patch at his side.

“Guess...guess Castiel’s got better aim than I thought,” he whispers.

 

Morgan takes a stuttering breath, those pale eyes glazing over.

With a smile on his lips, he dies.

 

Dean doesn’t move for several long moments.

 

 

He lowers his revolver to his side, breathing slow, in and out. His hands are shaking.

He ducks forward, pressing two fingers to the side of Morgan’s neck. Nothing.

 

Shit.

 

If more of Morgan’s men are really coming, Dean has to get out of here, he has to run, he has to—

He whirls around, ready to bolt out the doorway—

And freezes.

 

Four riders, standing in the doorway.

The one in front slides his eyes to the side, to the body of the former Marshal.

Then they flick back to Dean.

“Take him.”

 

Dean gets about three steps before he’s grabbed by the neck and slammed to the floor, wrists roughly yanked behind his back. The cold click of manacles echoes in his ear, signaling the loss of his freedom, letting him know he’s a prisoner once again.

 

 

x

 

 

_Clank clank clank._

 

Dean doesn’t even lift his head. He knows it’s the jailer, standing there with that stupid look on his face, holding whatever plate of slop they’ve decided to feed him this morning.

“Get up, outlaw,” the man’s snide voice comes. “I don’t got all day.”

 

With a groan, Dean unfurls himself from the cot, swinging his legs over the side. The jailer leers at him. Several of his teeth are missing.

He jangles the keys at Dean. In his other hand is a plate of something, hot and steaming. Despite himself, Dean’s stomach rumbles. He ain’t had nothing but coarse bread and a couple strips of jerky since they captured him. His captors hadn’t been too kind about sharing food—only when Dean was about to fall out of the saddle did they allow him the bare minimum from their rations.

 

“Come on,” the man says, grinning toothily.

Dean stands, moving warily towards the bars. The man slides the plate through the slot in the bars, resting it on the edge.

Just as Dean reaches for the plate, the man lets go—and it goes tumbling, falling to the floor—whatever stew that had been inside spilling all over the floor. Dean stares at it for a moment, then drags his eyes up.

The jailer shrugs.

“Oops,” he says, still grinning.

 

Dean throws himself back on the cot, turning his face to the wall. The jailer’s laughter rings in his ears for long after.

 

x

 

“Dean Winchester, no known aliases, resident of Colorado, born 1847.”

The judge pauses. His eyes flick up, appraising Dean briefly before dropping back to the text in front of him.

“Charged with several counts of assault, theft, and murder. And perhaps the most grievous, the murder of this county’s Marshal.”

The judge pauses as an angry murmur sweeps through the courtroom. Dean looks down, clenching his jaw.

The judge turns cool eyes back to Dean.

“After hearing the evidence, my decision is clear.” The man folds his hands, leaning forward.

“This court finds you guilty, on all counts. You will be hanged by the neck until dead.”

The judge’s gavel falls, a sharp sound that fails to mask the raucous noise from the crowd at the verdict—but it fails to reach Dean. He sits there, numb, until the guards haul him away, leading him back to the cells at the jail. The crowd jeers him on the way, hissing, yelling, one even throwing something foul-smelling at Dean's head. He thankfully misses, but Dean utters not one word of protest as he’s dragged along into the street, loaded up in the cart and shipped back down to the jail.

Dean stares at his manacled hands, flexing his fingers. It was a sham of a trial, but he hadn’t expected anything less. Once, Dean might have put his faith in the law, in the reason of the people to find the truth, to know the real story.

He knows better now.

 

After taking him from the Roost, turned out the closest city with jurisdiction was none other than Canon City. The governor is supposed to attend the hanging tomorrow.

Dean drops his head, huffing out a laugh. Finally made it.

The whole city was up in arms, crowing and ecstatic that someone connected with the notorious Emmanuel had finally been captured. Some were saying that Dean _was_ Emmanuel, and had been in disguise all along. But they were just happy to have finally caught one of Emmanuel's gang. And Morgan had been popular. He was beloved, as a good man amongst the lawless—a shining example in a dark time. He was one of the vilest men to walk on Colorado soil, and no one had known what a snake he really was.

Since the first day Dean had arrived in Canon City, there had been a crowd at his window every night, jeering and yelling, a crowd that had only grown as the days went on. The people were out for his head, and even if by some miracle Dean could convince them he didn’t kill Morgan, the county would have found something else to pin on him.

And besides. Dean isn’t innocent. He’d crossed that line long ago.

He deserved the name they hurled at him, the one he’d hated not just two months ago.

 _Outlaw_.

 

The cart rolls to a stop, and Dean lifts his head. The man they named as Morgan's successor steps up, throwing open the wooden door, beckoning to him. His deputy’s behind him, keeping his shotgun trained on Dean. Dean huffs, stepping down into the muck. The deputy prods him in the back, snarling.

“Quick about it now, boy.”

Dean turns back, glaring at him. He’s barely a youth, a freckle-faced kid that shrinks back a little when confronted with Dean’s gaze. But he soon hardens, gesturing to Dean again.

“Go on,” he says, shoving him hard.

Dean stumbles, falling straight into the mud. Ugly laughter erupts from around him, and the Marshal nudges Dean with his boot, growling.

“Get up, you.”

Dean digs his fingers into the earth, gritting his teeth. He’s resigned himself to his fate, but he’s not going to lose his dignity.

Dean shoves himself up, but he loses his footing on the slick earth and stumbles again, prompting the snickers to start anew. The Marshal grabs his arm, hauling him up.

“Pathetic,” he mutters.

Dean lets himself be shuttled along, retreating back into himself. He is. He is pathetic.

They stick him in a cell in the corner, bar the door, and post a guard outside. The other inmates leer at him through the bars, making lewd gestures.

Dean curls up in the corner, staring out of the tiny window in the corner. Tomorrow. They’re hanging him tomorrow, and then he’ll be free from all of this.

 

x

 

Dean doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he’s rudely awakened, a sharp clang against his bars.

The new Marshal, grinning at him.

“Rise and shine, outlaw,” he says with a sneer.

 

Dean hears the crowd before he sees it. Muttering, laughing, some jeering, the people loud and abuzz, riled up, ready to see blood. They ride through masses of people, all who watch him like an animal at a zoo, curious to see the man the county had finally managed to catch. Women, men, even children, sitting on their fathers’ shoulders. His execution, turned into a sick show.

Dean toys with the cold metal around his wrists, curling his fingers around the hard metal. His skin has been rubbed raw, but it’s nothing to what the rope’s going to do to him.

They had taken down most of Morgan's men in the shootout, but the ones who were left are all here, clustered around the new Marshal, like they were worried Dean might kill him too. Dean pulls at his manacles. As if he could.

The cart rumbles to a stop, and the lawmen have to push back the crowd to get Dean out safely, shoving and cursing the people, yelling to get them back.

Dean waits, staring at the contraption of wood, the boards and slats that make up his demise. There are more men up on the gallows, a priest, from the looks of his clothes, with his back turned, and the hangman waiting, his face expressionless.

“It’s time.”

Dean feels someone take his arm, escorting him up to the steps. He tries to smile, but is unable to tear his eyes away from the noose.

“Don’t suppose I can make a last minute appeal?” He asks weakly, as they start up the steps to the platform.

The Marshal steps up, an impatient look on his face.

“You have been allowed last rites.”

Dean frowns. Last rites?

“Hallelujah, brother," intones a voice. "We are gathered here to absolve the sinner before his final journey.”

Dean thinks he barely stops his jaw from dropping.

 

“And in His name, we shall see him absolved of all crime,” the man in the priest’s robes says, finishing with a righteous flourish, before he turns and winks at Dean.

Dean can’t manage to return the gesture, staring dumbstruck at the priest as the Marshal leads him up to the noose, sneering.

“Don’t look so happy, _outlaw_.”

His grip tightens on Dean’s arm like a vice.

“You ain’t got a friend in this town,” he hisses in his ear. “I wouldn’t look so smug.”

Dean tugs at his shackles, turning and staring him dead in the eye.

“You sure about that?”

The man’s smile falters as Dean’s ushered forward, right to the middle of the platform. They position him so he's standing directly on the trapdoor, the six-foot drop right below him. Despite Dean's cocky words, a horrible fear seizes his heart.

The priest next to Dean taps the Bible in his hands, face appropriately reserved as he watches the Marshal.

“Any last words, say ‘em now,” the mayor grunts, a portly man who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Dean looks around at the crowd, which has fallen dead silent.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” he says softly.

 

The mayor glances at the marshal, who signals to the executioner.

“By the authority vested in me, I order this hanging to proceed.”

The man nods, stepping behind Dean, slipping the rope around his neck. Dean’s heart begins to pound, an uneven beat in his chest. Everything seems to slow down, the scene before him surreal. Beside him, the priest starts a rousing sermon, a crescendo of noise breaking over him.

“May the lord who frees you from sin save you and rise you up—“

The marshal raises his hand, making sure all eyes are on him. The priest cracks open his bible, a flash of silver catching in the light. But there—movement through the crowd—

 

Dean can't breathe. The harsh sun is blinding him, but he sees a dark hat, and a familiar black coat—

 

The marshal’s hand drops.

 

The lever flips, the door out from under him drops open, and Dean gasps, the rope tightening around his throat—

Then it’s gone. His feet hit wood and he falls on his back, chaos erupting around him.

 

 

Gabriel whoops, dropping the hollowed-out Bible, knife flashing as he salutes.

“Thank you kindly, Marshal, bless you!” he calls out, before leaping in to join the fray starting at the steps of the scaffold. A man leaps up onto the platform, quick as a snake, knocking out men left and right, shoving them off the platform and into the confused crowd.

Except one. He reaches the Marshal, picking up a fallen rifle. The marshal pulls his own pistol, but the man knocks it out of his hand, knocking him to the ground with the butt of the rifle. He kneels over him, and quickly surfaces with a small key.

He turns and tosses it to Dean, wild eyes blue and beautiful.

“Well?” Castiel asks. “You just gonna sit there?”

 

Dean shakes his head in wonder, scooping up the key, quickly unlocking his manacles. As soon as he’s back on his feet, Castiel tosses him his gun. Dean catches it, immediately shooting the man sneaking up over Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel whirls, grabbing onto the hangman’s rope, kicking a man in the chest before using the rope to swing over the side of the platform.

“Come on!” He yells.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He jumps, landing on a few unfortunate citizens who got too close. One tries to do something about it, but Castiel decks him with a single punch. He holds out his hand, and Dean grasps it, Castiel pulling him up.

He grabs the front of Dean's shirt, and kisses him, hard and brief.

He pulls back, one hand on Dean’s cheek.

“Didn’t think I’d let you get away that easy, did you?” he whispers.

 

A thunderous clatter, and they break apart—a cart careening through the crowd, driven by none other than—

“Sam!” Castiel shouts, waving an arm. Sam sees and yanks the reins, turning the horses in their direction—people diving out of the way to not be trampled by the wild animals. Anna’s beside him, taking out men faster than Dean can blink, every shot deadly in its accuracy.

“Tally ho!”

Gabriel takes a running leap, his priest’s robes billowing comically around him—and lands with very little grace in the back of the cart. Castiel grabs Dean’s hand and they start running, straight towards the oncoming cart.

It’s madness, Dean’s heart racing wildly, fighting off any that try to grab them. The crowd of onlookers is scattering, but there are a few reckless would-be-heroes that are fighting towards them, desperate to have a hand in recapturing an outlaw.

 

Castiel grabs Dean's arm and they jump onto the back of the cart, landing roughly, Dean landing hard. Castiel immediately scrambles towards him, hand finding Dean's face.

“Dean,” he says, “Dean—”

He stares at him, panting.

“Are you alright?”

“Me, what about you—”

Dean reaches for Castiel's side, then pulls back, not wanting to hurt him. Last he saw Castiel, he was bleeding out in an inn miles from here. Dean wasn’t sure if he’d ever see him again.

“I told you I wouldn’t let you go,” Castiel says. “No one gets left behind.”

“No one gets left behind,” Dean whispers.

 

He pulls him down, pressing their foreheads together before their lips, sharing a deep and heated kiss.

 

Anna’s voice cuts through the moment.

“Christ—can’t you two give it a _rest?”_

 

x

 

Dean pulls himself up onto his horse’s saddle, petting her neck.

“Damn, it’s good to see you again,” he murmurs.

She whinnies in agreement, flicking her ears.

Gabriel comes back from his loop of the trail, grinning. He’s ditched the getup, and is back to normal.

“Nothing,” he says.

“You sure?” Anna asks.

Gabriel nods.

“Shouldn’t stick around too long, just in case, but…” He beams. “Looks like you successfully cheated death, Dean Winchester.”

Dean huffs a laugh, tilting his head to the side.

“And I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

Sam rides up beside Dean, smiling as well. His hand is wrapped in white, but he’s looking good, happier than Dean’s seen in months.

“Cas said we’re all set,” he says. “To head back to Creede. If we want.”

The nickname surprises Dean, but he immediately sobers, turning to look at Castiel, who dips his head slightly, avoiding his eyes.

Dean swallows thickly.

 

He thinks back to their house in Creede, thinks back to the few small possessions they’d managed to accumulate.

Dean realizes he won’t miss any of them. The only things that matter are with him. His horse. His mother’s gun. Sam.

And Cas.

 

“Castiel.”

 

Castiel looks up.

 

Dean takes a deep breath, but finds himself unable to speak. So many words, so many things to say.

 

Sam clears his throat.

“Then again,” he says. “I was thinkin' we could use a change of scenery.”

Both of them turn their heads.

“What?” Dean and Castiel say in unison.

 

Sam leans back in his saddle, smiling.

“Whaddya say, Cas?” He glances at Dean, a sly twinkle in his eye. “You got room for a doctor on your team?”

Castiel looks at him, a smile of his own slowly starting to form.

“You know, I just might.”

 

Gabriel whoops, clapping the pair of them on the back.

“Excellent. Gotta say, I woulda missed you, Winchester.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“I’m sure. Never gonna be a dull moment with you, is there?”

“You know it.”

“Where can we go?” Anna asks.

They all pause, ruminating over her words. She shrugs.

“We may leave Colorado, but I’m sure we’re wanted in every territory here to the Mississippi.”

“There’s always Kansas,” Sam says. “Or south to Texas.”

 

 

“Tell me.”

 

Castiel looks at Dean, eyes glinting.

“You ever been to Mexico?”

 

 

Dean grins.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! I really enjoyed my third time around with the dcbb, and I hope you did too :)  
> You're always welcome to hit me up on tumblr, and please go visit feredir and give some love for the amazing art!
> 
> cheers,  
> chevrolangels


End file.
